


How Can You Do It Alone

by JaeNunyah



Category: Pink Floyd, The Who
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2020-06-26 16:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19772392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaeNunyah/pseuds/JaeNunyah
Summary: Two top dogs each have something the other needs.





	1. Face The Face

**Author's Note:**

> First chapter was deliberately composed as companion piece to "The Quiet One" with intentional echoes and purposeful parallels, but foremost is beginning of fiercely fond friendship.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger receives intelligent, insightful advice.

"How do you keep from going crazy?"

Roger determines his drinking companion's attained intermediate inebriation inspiring introspection, and that he might finally get honest, serious answers if he can hold him here halfway between mundane chitchat and madcap grandstanding. He himself has been nursing the same beer for an hour while Pete's now cracking open his second bottle of Chianti. Roger pulls a single soldier from the six-pack he'd brought and offers it across the bar between them.

"Well, it helps to shatter stuff instead of dreams...maybe if you broke more bottles than balls, they wouldn't be so scared of you." Pete grins, accepting the dewy longnecked lager but acknowledging he's sussed Roger's scheme. "I'll slow down if YOU catch up."

"They haven't GOT any balls." Roger laments. "I'm not TRYING to break them, I'm trying to FIND them."

Pete leers lewdly "Have you investigated the usual vicinities?"

"Ugh." Roger's lips twist in a wry grimace "There's quite enough of THAT going on already. When it isn't a namby-pamby nursery it's Peyton Fucking Place." He allows Pete to pour him a glass of wine but has no intention of drinking it any faster than small, spaced sips. On this rare occasion alone with somebody on his own level, he needs full faculties. "Sometimes with Syd it's both at the same time...YOU know how that can be."

"Sure." Pete agrees "Like you don't know if you're granting a favor or pressing an advantage."

"I'M not doing EITHER." Roger snaps "I'd hoped Rick might mitigate...maybe mellow...him a little, but whatever HE's doing it's not enough."

"Have you told him...the quiet one, not the maniac...that you appreciate he's at least TRYING?"

"No." Roger takes up goblet's stem and conveys the rim to his mouth, touching tongue to taste red wine both dry and bitter (perfect complement to his thoughts) but does not drink. "How CAN I, when he doesn't even want to admit it's happening? Anything I could say would only upset him, no matter how well I might mean." He flicks baiting barb, just to see how Pete will respond. "At least YOUR pussy's got no shame and YOUR quiet one HAS a pair...and they're two separate people."

Pete's cutting retort sharply slices, reminding Roger he's not the only Big Dog in the room. "If YOU weren't being a pussy it would be YOUR fucking band by now."

"They won't HAVE me." Roger frets, meaning more than merely mates. "Syd's got this 'tortured artist' Thing going on...this mad mystique...all the silly sheep see it as so sexy. Of COURSE I can make much more magnificent music than we ARE, but there's no accounting for taste, is there?"

Pete bangs his bottle down on the bar, freeing a hand to point stern finger. "They'll have what you TELL them to have, if it's good enough. Even if they DO cherish illusions of being artists in their own right, NONE of them grok the whole picture like you do. You KNOW it, you're just too chickenshit to make THEM see it."

"They don't CARE what I know." Tannic touch tightens tastebuds as Roger imbibes a bracing swallow of wine before continuing "You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make him think."

"Who cares if they THINK, as long as they turn up and shell out?"

Roger relishes uncommon uncertainty, unsure if Pete's screwing with him. Usually he's many moves ahead of any given gambit, but this majestically manifold man's something strangely striking and stirring. "I care." he says simply, well aware Pete already knows that. 

"What matters more, getting the information through or being respected and obeyed?"

"I want BOTH." Roger feels comfortable enough here to permit petty, piqued display of envy. "YOU have both. Tell me how."

"Putting aside the debate as to whether or not those who buy the records have any real idea what they're about..." Pete stretches languidly, almost provocatively, arching his back and rolling his shoulders until a small series of snapping crackles pop along his spine "I'm truly touched you've come to me for advice, even if you ARE demanding rather than asking, and I'll tell you something for nothing..." Those astonishingly astute eyes, equal parts fierce and sad, are as drilling and delving as the brain behind them. "You're not working hard enough."

Roger's initial impulse is indignation. He works harder than ANYbody, striving constantly to serve as exemplar of diligence, legitimizing leverage leaned on lazy lads. How DARE he...get it right? Humility doesn't come easy, but it's a personal pet peeve when those who seek solutions subsequently fail to heed them, so...

"You're right." Roger admits "I've only got two choices, both bloody bleak, so I'm just spinning my wheels."

"Oh, there are ALWAYS more than two possible paths..." Pete twinkles teasingly "...for a man of intelligence, imagination and initiative."

"If you want to split hairs..." Roger allows "...but, really, it boils down to stay or go."

"Better the devil you know than the one you don't." Pete proclaims, surprising Roger with declarative decision when he'd expected the analyst's trick of eliciting list of pros and cons while remaining noncommittal.

"If I stay, there'll have to be some fucking changes, and if I try to say so they'll all think I'M the devil."

"Heavy is the head..." Somehow these glib maxims don't sound like platitudes from Pete.

"I get that..." Roger sighs "...and I don't need them to love me, but..."

"But WHAT?" Pete's going to make him say it, although Roger's sure the answer's as apparent as it is embarrassing.

"I'm afraid, all right?" It's a struggle to meet that piercing expression while offering paining confession, but Roger's own weakness cannot be denied as a factor in the wretched wreck. "I'm scared they won't listen, or worse, that they'll laugh and tell me to hit the bricks."

Pete pours himself another glass, attempt to top off Roger's deflected with dismissive demurral. "That's why you don't give them a choice."

"Slaver." Roger jibes, although he grasps Pete's meaning. It's worth a try...increase productivity himself, lay off pushing pups to keep up and just present finished work with (appearance of) confidence that what he's crafted is everybody's best and easiest option. "Of COURSE they have a choice, and even if I cracked a literal whip, they outnumber me...and know where I sleep."

"Do you HAVE a literal whip?" Pete inquires archly "Your maniac looks like he could go for it...your quiet one, too, for that matter."

"That will NOT be happening." Roger assures, amending "Unless they're doing it to each OTHER...along with who knows what else."

"This again..." Pete muses mildly "What bothers you the most about it?"

Roger had thought he didn't Really Want to discuss such a sordid subject, but realizes he's looking at the only person with whom he CAN. "I guess the worst part is I'm supposed to act like I don't know."

"Says who?" grins Pete "Say, that might be an album title. Spell it S-E-Z, for gritty gutter patois. Seriously, though, do you WANT the dirty details?"

"Not in the slightest. They both lack the perspicacity and personality to make it interesting and, in absence of that, one sweaty grapple's much like another." Roger sneers "Barnyard antics bore me."

"Is it jealousy, then?" Roger glares at the very idea as Pete elucidates "Not over pretty pals personally, but because nobody's playing with YOU?"

"My love life is fucking fine..." declares Roger.

"Fine fucking?" Pete laughs lightly.

"...and has zero bearing on ANY of this, which is how it's gonna STAY."

"Well..." sniffs Pete loftily "...if you get to keep YOUR business private, what's wrong with them wanting the same?"

"When you put it that way, nothing, but it's NOT private. I have to see...more than is comfortable, even though they THINK they're subtle. Rick does, anyway. Hard to tell what Syd thinks...or how he'll act." Roger tells the whole truth in few words. "Playing dumb is an affront to my ego."

"What would you say if you could?"

"I'd tell Rick not to be such a goddamn mouse." Roger speaks without hesitation. "Syd's running through him like Montezuma's Revenge and it's gonna break his tender little heart when we finally have to cut the maniac loose. It's a concern that when Syd goes...'cause it's fast approaching him or me...that Rick'll follow him. It's just so frustrating that the only one of us who WANTS to pay Syd that kind of attention won't apply advantageous leverage."

"You can't change a man's nature, but maybe you can wean him off an unhealthy habit before either cold turkey or overdose becomes inevitable." Pete offers cryptically. "Are you grooming replacements yet?"

"A few." Roger acknowledges tersely, wondering where this is going. 

"Any of them especially...sensitive...or real good-looking?"

"What's that got to do with...?" Roger begins, but suddenly understands with awed admiration for Pete's masterfully manipulative Machiavellian mind. Obviously, there's no way to predict attraction or connection (well, maybe there is, but he's a musician, not a matchmaker), but spot of stacking the deck couldn't hurt. 

"You're a genius." Roger does not bandy that word lightly.

Pete takes the compliment with grace, generously giving it back. "Takes one to know one."


	2. Scheme The Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete has devious designs on Roger's virtue

"What kind of bloody burlesque Bedlam boat are you running, here?" Roger barks, storming in without further greeting, radiating glaring glower. "I just had to give your maniac a fat lip!"

Pete closes the door, returning threatening gaze. "Come, now, that's a bit excessive. Surely you don't bruise your OWN problem child."

[Fuck. Keith will undoubtedly demand hazard pay.]

"I DO smack Syd when he paws, and your little Loon just had BOTH meat-hooks on me before I gave him the back of mine."

"He touched you...?" Pete had EXPRESSLY told Moonie NOT to do that ["Mind your hands, Keefy, his look very hard."], and hopes he hadn't flubbed his lines. "Did he say anything?"

"Something stupid." Roger tosses dismissively, but Pete discerns faint flicker of embarrassment.

He can work with that. Better than disgust, which would've scuttled the scheme. "Stupid, or just weird?" Pete presses, alertly anticipating subtle signal of either reception or rejection.

"Both." Roger's intense regard remains inscrutable "He says you want to fuck me."

[Moonie wouldn't go THAT obscenely off-script...would he? His come-ons are customarily cutely coy, especially when in drag. Actual line had been intended: "The Boss always keeps the best ones for himself.", with a winsome, wistful sigh and melting chocolate eyes, but the further removed from his pagan skins the worse he gets at taking direction...]

Assuming Roger's acerbic assessment is his own cutting-through-the-treacle take (that IS the gist of it, after all...the seed Pete had sought to sow) he decides a man who deals so directly deserves respectful reciprocation. "It's true, you know. I invited you here with devious designs on your virtue."

"Bollocks." Roger skeptically scoffs. "What is it you Really Want?"

[Is that a glint of curiosity or a spark of irritation? He's so hard to read.]

Pete wonders if it would be worth a busted lip of his own to venture within Roger's reach and offer immediate, intimate evidence of his sincere attraction. He's wanted since their first meeting to discover whether Roger brings to his carnal consummations the dedicated ferocity so alluringly apparent in his work. Austere aloofness augments appeal, seeming at first blush to be coldly calculating cruelty but upon deeper delve disclosed as strict, exacting discipline, which Pete longs to experience for himself.

Since coming to grips with hauntingly heated fantasies of physical love for his spiritual guru, Meher Baba, Pete has also acknowledged his burgeoning inclination to take...be taken by...a male lover, and the man he wants most stands before him now. That smile, so coolly confident, and the calmly collected, matter-of-fact manner offstage contrasts so sharply with the impassioned savagery of his public performances. Pete burns to learn which face Roger shows in the bedroom. Might he snarl and scream or wickedly whisper as he does into the microphone...powerful, deft fingers throttling the throat...or cock...of his partner as they do the neck of his Fender?

[Nobody else would DARE try to beat me like a gong...or even believe I would want that...but HE might. How to breach those walls?]

Noting small, scarlet smear besmirching the lapel of Roger's black leather coat provides Pete an opportunity to step closer...to reach out and touch..."Lipstick. My, he WAS frightfully forward, wasn't he?" As he rubs away the waxy residue with a single swipe of his thumb, he observes Roger's reaction. Not quite a flinch, only the slightest stiffening of posture and a rapid double blink of enticing eagle eyes.

[Proximity issues, or just nervousness? Either way, he hides it well.]

"Keefy usually confines his...affections... to his friends, but I'm afraid none of us have had the time or inclination to play with him lately, and he must be growing restless." Setting the Moon upon the Waters had been not only a deliberate ploy to discover how Roger copes with sexualized stress but also to provide commiserating conversational gambit. "Does your maniac ever pester guests when he doesn't get enough attention at home?"

"Syd NEVER gets enough attention." Roger grouses, emphasizing "NOT that he gets ANY from ME. Encouraging that sort of shiT only makes it worse."

Roger's sternly scolding expression conjures images in Pete's mind of being ordered to his knees. Although he'd like nothing more than to fall upon them unbidden, he knows the offer, when finally made, must be a proposition cerebrally negotiated between equals. Submission of a smitten supplicant, however heartfelt, hasn't a hope in hell of moving this masterful yet mistrustful man to more than single shallow dalliance, and Pete's deviant desires run deep, indeed. Just a little could never be enough... Teasing taste would stoke, rather than slake, torrid temptation.

"If you never share at all, the threat to withhold can't become a handy handle." Pete archly articulates "Moonie's mostly manageable...in THAT regard, anyhow...because he knows what misbehavior makes him miss. Besides..." he adds, turning to stride toward sideboard, achingly aware of Roger watching his back "...sometimes he's so sweet." Those words make him select a cloying blackberry brandy, pouring them each a moderate measure before turning back around to offer both drink and double entendre. "Sampling unusual flavors helps a man understand his own palate."

Roger has crept so quietly behind him Pete is startled to behold his nearness, refusal in his voice but something else agleam in his countenance as he rejects both the drink and the suggestion. "I don't want that sticky stuff. Rick's the sweet one. Sampling Syd is HIS goddamn job."

Pete downs brandy meant for Roger in a single swallow, portraying pledge of good faith, setting down Empty Glass, gesturing with full one, indicating arrayed intoxicants but meaning much more..."Help yourself to whatever you DO want." Observing Roger select a Heineken [Clear, crisp, cool and crackling...just like him.], he continues "Would you suffer the sticky if the sweet one were offering?"

"He WOULDN'T." Roger snidely snickers "He's afraid of me...of EVERYTHING, really...and he thinks I'm ugly."

Studying Roger's features, Pete can concede that might be an easy mistake to make...for those who look but don't see. "That's not what I asked."

"I don't fuck sheep." Roger snaps sharply "I doubt he's any good, anyway. If he's not enough to keep Syd interested..." he trails off, and Pete is strongly stirred to behold mental machination giving way to inkling of intelligent inspiration "...oh, THAT would be priceless!"

"What dost thou, in thy mind, have?" Pete just knows whatever it is must be creatively convoluted, and is intensely intrigued.

Roger grins gleefully. "Imagine if we fed my maniac to yours? Could solve BOTH our problems."

Brilliant, but..."If we were to arrange such a playdate, it's best we both be there, just to keep things safe."

"What do you mean 'safe'?" Roger's eyes narrow suspiciously.

"Well, letting them run rampant runs risk of incurring damage, doesn't it?" Pete's sure Roger knows that.

"What do you mean 'damage'?"

[He's screwing with me. Why?]

"Oh, don't do that." It's Pete's turn to snap, gratified Roger feigns neither innocence nor ignorance.

"I'll stop the tricks if YOU will. I know what you're after..."

[Of course he does. What will he do about it?]

"Your suggestion of...supervision...arises not from concern for either person or for property but, rather, out of perversion." Roger smirks "You're a nasty voyeur who wants to watch."

Pete can admit it...can Roger? "Are you saying YOU don't? It was YOUR idea, after all, and you can't deny that whatever mischief those two might mutually manage would be extremely entertaining."

"I suppose there's something to that..." Roger allows "...and to the wisdom of our attendance for safety's sake. They could be explosive together."

[So could we.]


	3. Stake The Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rousing collaboration arouses.

"Tell me you love me!"

Roger's been eager to get inside Pete's home studio for an eyeful (maybe even a handful) of his mixing capacity [Sure seen enough of it at his bar.] but hearing Keith merrily trumpeting Syd's vexing catchphrase moves him to peer into playroom. Pete steps closely behind, not touching but near enough for Roger to feel his heat. [The man runs SO hot...onstage and off...What wicked wrinkle is THIS?]

Sleeve of his coat slipping softly along the shoulder of Roger's as he reaches past to push open the door, Pete revels in closeness much more marvelous than mere proximity as the two survey the scene set in motion by their mutual machination. [We did this...there's "we" between us now...how brilliant we are.]

Roger's initial impression is of two circus monkeys literally swinging from the chandeliers, but quickly realizes he's seeing some sort of rope-and-ribbon rig, a higgledy-piggledy mess seemingly constructed around Barrett's bound body. Moon's not especially strong, nor persuasive. That weirdly wanton web wasn't woven without batty bandmate's complicity. [The words, though...]

"Did you coach him?" Roger whispers, trying to recall whether he'd shared Syd's lippy line and deciding he hadn't.

"I did NOT." Pete insists, although he had...a little. ["You're off the chain, here, Keefy. He's a naughty boy in need of...chastening. Show him what a REAL wild man can do."]

Keith's skirt and petticoats are rucked up over his pumping hips, lacy fabric frothing across Barret's backside. Syd wears only gaffer tape in array suspiciously resembling a straitjacket, two short strips crisscrossed in an X over his mouth. Pete's impressed, indeed, scanning Roger for signs of shock and seeing only fascination tinged with...mild concern?

"If this turnabout doesn't strike you as fair play, we can call a halt." Pete offers, returning Moonie's jaunty wave. ["Look, Mum, no hands!"] "Besides, now he knows there's an audience, so it'll be all hammy if we stay."

Roger knows Syd deserves this [Beastly brat's been BEGGING for it.], but...Striding into the room, Roger cannot help but notice Keith does not stop fucking Syd as he hunkers down to rip the tape from his lips. "Have you had enough? Ready to go home yet?"

"Get lost, Roger!" Syd gasps with a glare "YOU go home. You HAD your chance."

That's all Roger needs to know, but there's something he wants to hear. "Tell Keith you love him."

"He's said it A LOT already." Moonie giggles "I've had all I want of his mouth. Put the tape back."

Roger might have, under his own initiative, but he doesn't take orders from maniacs. "No." Flicking sticky wad onto the carpet, Roger turns from torrid tableau to face Pete in the doorway, tossing back "Make him sing. He's been slacking at that lately."

[He's perfect. VeryveryVERY hard...I wonder...coat's too long to tell...but not cruel.] "Come on." Pete urges "I need a drink. We can hear him sing from the bar."

"You drink too much." Roger snaps, but allows himself to be ushered from the room.

"You don't drink enough." Pete retorts, leaving the door open behind them.

"That might be true..." Roger agrees, following Pete around the corner into spacious salon where both men belly up to the same side of a long walnut-paneled bar, inspecting the bottles arrayed atop it "...today."

"What's your pleasure?" Pete longs to learn.

"Break out the stiffest belt you can handle, and I'll match you."

Pete knows those words were no accident, and resolves to repay Roger's wry wit. "Stiffest belt I can take is holding up my pants, but it's yours if you want it." He looks brazenly into Roger's valiant visage. "Would you rather match me...or beat me?"

"Cheeky bugger." Roger cackles "Must run in the family." He knows those words were no joke, but is unable to voice a serious reply, wondering how Pete's aware of his private proclivity for the belt. [Fuck. If he's as clever as I think, I just told him myself.] He's never considered beating a man...that way...but THIS one presents a uniquely compelling opportunity. That's REAL dominance, when the one eagerly kneeling beneath the lash actually HAS power to willingly, if temporarily, relinquish. [He's built tough, too. I could finally flog full-force.]

Pete smiles back as if he'd only been teasing, but the room suddenly seems swelteringly steamy. He strips off his jacket and flings it into a nearby chair, watching Roger follow suit, the manner in which his heavier coat crushes Pete's beneath it inspiring images of their bodies in similar position to their discarded garments. A burning thirst upon him, Pete's desperation for a drink seems the only urge he'll see slaked. Pouring himself a tripleshot of Remy Martin, he sets an Empty Glass before Roger and waves the bottleneck over it.

"Is this to your liking?"

"Not usually." Roger declares "But I want the same as you right now."

Thrilled to hear that but unsure how to take it, Pete fills Roger's glass before raising his own in salute. "Here's to our first collaboration. I'd say it's a rousing success, wouldn't you?"

"Syd's 'roused, all right..." [He's not the only one.] "...did you notice he's somehow minus an eyebrow?"

Pete hadn't been close enough to see that. "Keefy sometimes takes trophies." he explains, tossing back more than half his drink, noting that Roger barely sips his own, prompting him to goad "Thought you were gonna match me?"

Roger's above such macho posturing, and Pete needs to learn that RIGHT NOW. "I'll take what you're offering but I'll set my own pace, thank you very much, and if that doesn't suit you, you can go to hell."

[I KNEW he's the right man for this job...For me.] "After today, there's a strong possibility we'll BOTH be going to hell." Pete quips, adoring Roger's iconoclastic resolve.

Keenly questing gaze implies inquiry, but Roger's words are an insinuating statement. "Oh, I've no doubt you've been well-steeped in sin long before today."

"True..." Pete allows "...although a few flavors of debauchery yet elude my adventurous appetites."

That requires a direct question, and Roger hopes for a straight answer. "You're not after anything as mad and messy as what THEY'RE getting up to, are you?"

Pete's reply approximates airy disdain. "If I WERE, it's obvious I could have had it by now."

"You could have anybody you want." Roger flatly flatters. "What are you playing at, flirting with ME?"

Pete preens at the compliment, however unsentimentally stated, although it isn't accurate. He's spent much amorous attention upon obsessively unrequited pining for various unattainable idols, but perhaps Roger's not so unreachable as he'd appeared. "Unless I've underestimated your amazing powers of observation, I believe you already know the answer to that."

"I can't know YOUR answer because you haven't SAID it." Roger sighs. [Even if you HAD, I don't know how trustworthy you are...yet.] "Stop pussyfooting and TELL me."

Pete had though he HAD been overt...almost obscene...and now strives to speak as plainly as possible. "Why does anybody flirt? I want you. Clear enough?"

"Why?" Roger knows, but wants it said. "Can't be my cuddly curves or creamy complexion."

Pete laughs drily. "As you pointed out, fluffy tails get shaken my way all the time. I'm attracted to your smart, strong, sharp self...Sir."

"Sure it's not narcissism?" Roger probes, continuing to push while powerfully pulled. "Wanting to try somebody on your level for a change? You're bold and brilliant yourself." [And beautiful, besides.]

"I sometimes wish I didn't have to be on top of...everything..." Pete admits, hazarding an educated speculation "...but I think you do. Maybe more than you're getting."

It's as if those stunningly intelligent blue eyes espy every chink in the mortar of his carefully crafted walls, but Roger keeps his contrived cool. "Just to be sure we're in agreement...You want an ongoing experiment in power exchange, not A Quick One or a love affair?"

Pete dares to lay his hand atop Roger's resting on the bar. "Surely bright boys like us can figure it out as we go along?"

Roger jerks his fingers from beneath Pete's. "No. That kind of hapless sap is for children and fools...neither of which we are." Deliberately softening his expression, he reaches back to cover Pete's hand with his own. [He wants ME on top.] "I need to hone my command, and you need somebody to strip you of yours...sometimes...and we both need it to stay secret for the same reasons." He lightly strokes the firmly calloused hand beneath his as he scrutinizes Pete's face. "Do you truly wish to submit to my devious desires?"

"What will your devious desires entail?" Pete holds eye contact, turning his hand slowly within Roger's to allow questing fingertips into his open palm.

"Quicker to say what they WON'T." Roger tells him bluntly, tracing heart line. "No cocksucking or bumfucking, and don't try to take my clothes off."

"That doesn't leave us much." Pete's gentle jibe becomes an indrawn hiss as Roger sharply indents index finger into the pressure point between thumb and wrist. 

"If you really think THAT, then I've grievously misjudged you and am no longer interested." Roger moves to turn away, and thrills to feel Pete pleadingly pull him back. [Yesss. This has...we have...such potential.]

"Is this moratorium graven in stone?" Pete needs to know. 

"Open to eventual renegotiation, should my inclinations evolve." Roger graciously grants, warning "Not anytime soon. Press the point, and you'll be bereft." 

"No...yes...I agree." Pete stammers, disconcerted at his uncharacteristic discombobulation, struggling to regain composure, mind ablaze and flesh aflame at ideation of what might transpire.

"Perhaps, then, we should seal this unconventional covenant with a traditional gesture." Roger raises his fingers from Pete's.

Pete extends newly vacated hand in a businesslike shaking gesture, hoping Roger will clasp it and allow this glorious game to officially begin.

Roger moves in closer, past the offered hand, permitting Pete to wrap it around his narrow waist. "I had something more...binding...in mind."

"Blood?" Pete murmurs, prepared to give that if Roger so demands.

"What do you take me for?"

[Lover?]

Roger bridges brief gap to press parted lips against Pete's gasp. Neither man closes his eyes, and Roger watches Pete's pupils dilate with desire as he deeply draws in impassioned exhalation. [I've taken his very breath. He offered his blood. What else can I make mine?]

"Give me your belt." Roger demands, drawing back.

Pete burns to discover how Roger deals with defiance. "Come and take it."

"You will GIVE it to me, or I'll collect my maniac and go home."

Pete cannot maintain pretense of resistance, finding fingers fumbling with the buckle.

"One more thing..." Roger commands as Pete pulls narrow strip of leather from loops of his trousers "Do NOT tell me you love me."

Pete holds out his belt in sublime supplication, saying simply "I can't promise that."


	4. Know The Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger presses the point...

"Don't be so stingy." Pete complains, eyeing the meager measure Roger has deigned to permit. "That's not even a proper shot."

"It IS." Roger insists "You're such a greedy lush you may never have SEEN a single ounce by itself. But, if you don't want it..." he moves to grasp the glass, but allows Pete to get there first, noting the desperation with which he downs the drink. [How needy he is...wonder if it's just for the hard stuff..how to exploit that?] "If you continue to answer my questions with only the bare minimum, such lack of generosity is to be appropriately reflected in your rewards." Roger informs him coolly, rebuking "STOP looking at the bottle, you disgraceful drunkard. I'll have those lovely eyes on ME while I'm speaking to you."

Pete takes a step closer, asking boldly "Anything else you want...on you?" [He thinks my eyes are lovely. Perhaps I might move him with them.]

"Your attention." Roger utters tersely.

"You have that." Pete avows, striving to render his expression into something raptly, radiantly adoring. "Maybe more than any man alive."

Roger loves the flattery, but knows it's mostly diversionary tactic, so remains stern. "It's the OTHER men I want to hear about, and I shall withhold your drinks as you deny my dirty details."

"I already told you how many..." Pete sighs, uncomfortable with this probing line of inquiry "...and that none of them meant anything. What more do you need?"

"I need the TRUTH." Roger's voice is a whipcrack evoking masochistic memory, causing Pete to faintly flinch. "If none of them meant ANYthing, then that means YOU are an indiscriminate slut, and I don't believe that. So..." he continues, waggling the bottle teasingly but not yet pouring "...what did they mean?"

"Not what I wanted them to mean." Pete confesses quietly, awkwardly resisting the impulse to look away. "They were after me for the same reasons women are, so it wound up being not as...different...as I'd hoped." Held fast by Roger's regard, Pete longs to be taken into his arms, realizing he wants that more than another drink as he whispers "Nothing was ever like this...nobody could ever be like you."

Roger discerns the shift in direction of Pete's desire and determines to test it. He tips out a deeper drink then poses the question "Would you rather a double shot..." he leans in closer "...or a single kiss?"

"First one..." Pete reaches not for the glass but for Roger's hand beside it "...and then the other."

Roger allows the contact, but picks up the drink with his other hand. "No. The only taste of this you'll get is from ME." He throws back the burning libation before crushing his moistened mouth upon Pete's parched one, usurping the choice in much the same manner as he now takes the kiss.

Intoxication of transferred taste through tantalizing touch infuses Pete's senses as no liquor ever has [ever COULD], and his head swims with sensual daydreams while he slips his tongue lightly along the limber length of Roger's.

Roger accepts Pete's intimate exploration until alcoholic aftertaste abates, but puts a stop to it before any other burn begins elsewhere. [At least for me. He's unaccustomed to moderation, though. Do I Really Want to become another addiction? Yesss. He WILL beg me, if teased enough.] Releasing Pete's hand, Roger raises one finger to trace the lips from which his own have withdrawn as he resumes invasive interrogation.

"Am I correct, then, that your previous deviant dalliances were NOT, in fact, meaningless but merely...unsatisfying?"

Pete would rather not keep discussing this. "I suppose that's so." he agrees.

Roger lays suggestive pauses like landmines into his next question. "And how much...skin...did you have in the game before...coming...to that conclusion?"

Pete fails to Face The Face as he answers briefly, honest but evasive. "All of it."

Roger will brook no further euphemism. "Have you been buggered?"

"That's what I SAID." Pete snaps, glaring defiantly into Roger's gaze at the indecent indelicacy, infused with heated flush. [Holy Baba, he's making me blush. He probably loves it...]

"That is NOT what you said..." Roger declares "...but you will now."

Pete cannot curtail the rampant redness creeping across his flesh but successfully suppresses shameful squirm, forcing himself to squarely regard Roger. "If I do, you have to give me another kiss."

Delighted Pete demands a kiss before a drink, Roger stays steadfastly stoic. "Tell me again what I 'have to' do and what I WILL give you is another beating. Now SAY it...if you CAN."

"I've been buggered." Pete spits, resisting the urge to add a flippant 'happy now?' or 'what's it to you?' [He ANSWERS rhetorical questions.]

"By who?" asks Roger calmly, countenance agleam with curiosity.

"Nobody YOU know!" is replied with such savage snarl Roger decides it's either the truth or a severely sore point...possibly both. [snicker]. He pats Pete's hand patronizingly and pours another double shot, lips curving softly with gentle indulgence.

"Good dog. Was it harder to ADMIT than it was to DO?"

Pete gratefully downs the drink then cautiously returns the smile. "You know, it WAS, actually. Don't call me a dog."

"I'll call you whatever I like." Roger's voice is an oily ooze "If you're a bad dog you shall be fitted with collar and chain."

[!!!]

Pete flashes fierce fire. "Now, LOOK...hitting me with my own belt...rationing my OWN booze..." he takes a bracing breath, wishing he dared to reach for the bottle "...maybe even 'collar and chain', okay, that's all fun and games, but I WON'T let you call me a dog."

[Is his balk worse than his bite?] "The whole point of these 'fun and games' is for you to submit to MY wishes, and I desire a good dog." 

Pete remains resolute. "The POINT is for us BOTH to get what we need...and want. I don't want that, I don't LIKE it and I won't stand for it. You can peddle your perverted puppy papers elsewhere."

Roger silently applauds Pete's hardline stance, but cannot yield his upper hand. "What an obstinate boy you are." he sighs "Whatever shall I do with you?"

Permitting small, salacious shiver to show, Pete's expression shifts slyly from furious to fond. "I can work with 'boy'. Can you?"

[!!!]

"Wicked, disrespectful, disobedient Boy." Roger dryly derides "Take off your shirt. I need to inspect my handiwork...see how soon you can take a fresh thrashing. You've certainly earned one with your fresh mouth."

"Thought you didn't want any nudity?" Pete taunts.

"That prohibition applies to MY clothes, not yours, as you well recall." Roger looms lasciviously, hoping for a spot of defiance here so he can make good on upcoming threat. "Now take it off, of I'll tear it beyond repair and beat you even if you DO remain welted from last time."

"Yes, Sir." Pete turns around to comply, baring his back before Roger's eager eyes and masterful mind.

[Maybe next time he won't be so easy.] "Good Boy."


	5. Line The Lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Regard, respect and restraint...

"How's the pretty one working out?" Pete cranes curious vantage behind him, chin against one bare shoulder and eyes delving Roger's studious visage.

"He's a pig." Roger declares dismissively, preoccupied perusing Empty Spaces between lines laid across Pete's naked back and disinclined to discuss Dirty Dave.

Running roughened fingertips along raised, reddened welts parallel to both sides of Pete's literal backbone, Roger silently admires his figurative one. [Far more warhorse than dog of war...withstood strongest strokes stoutly.] Willing women to which he's subjected similar lascivious lambasting had all either writhed, wailed or wept, but Pete has, throughout thrashing, repeatedly remained perfectly still, uttering only lowest of groans and lightest of gasps, both sounding far more pleased than pained. Firmness of flesh beneath his hands evokes a tactile contrast in addition to the aural one upon which he'd been musing, and Roger's unsure whether he prefers silken skin and soft sobs or sturdy steadfast strength, deciding he needn't choose. 

[Who's to stop me from having both?]

Pete, unlike any playmate he's ever known, possesses more than mere masochism to enjoy it or capacity to endure it, but perspicacity to DESCRIBE it, which Roger deeply desires. Pressing with equal firmness with each hand upon two stripes of equal likelihood to develop into bruises, he delights in the surety sensual subject currently bowed before him will not only recognize but also be able to detail the difference.

"Which hurt worse? This one...or this one?"

Pete has long fantasized about a man who could truly master him, but continues to be surprised that the way Roger manages it is far more cerebral than carnal, satisfying his desires while denying immediate urges. Reaching back to touch himself on the knob between and slightly above shoulderblades, he acknowledges "Here's where it REALLY hurt.", and is astonished to feel hot breath and tender touch of lips before Roger draws back to scold.

"I barely even hit you there. Sore spot? How did it feel?"

[Barely? good grief, what's he got in reserve?] "Like shattered glass in an acid bath." Pete's eloquent elucidation erupts.

"Why would you WANT...submit to...that?" Roger archly inquires, hoping Pete can maybe finally explain why so many wet-lipped women have begged him to beat them but then could not adequately answer the same question. He himself would never wish to be hurt, and although assured that some people do, he yet remains mystified as to why.

"It's not the pain I like so much as the subjugation." Pete confesses, not quite willing to admit that Roger's thrashings are indeed excruciating and that it's all he can do to endure without cringe or cry. "Heavy hand holds me hard, Sir, and I'm willing to endure the agony for the ecstasy of knowing another's in command."

"That's the problem with the whole fucking world." Roger sighs, lamenting "They all want somebody ELSE to be in charge, but then they whine that disinclination to coddle is 'mean' and unwillingness to kowtow is 'arrogant'." He strokes one hand lightly along Pete's head, stopping to briefly scratch one ear. "I'm sure YOU know." 

Pete knows that what works for him would never fly in Roger's world, but it's worth trying to get a rise..."Well, you have to make them believe you respect them." He stands up and turns around, slipping hands around Roger's waist "Like you've done with me."

"I DO respect you." Roger replies, stepping backward out of Pete's embrace "But I won't pretend it where it isn't." He bends over to retrieve Pete's shirt and thrusts the bunched material between them. "Put this back on."

Pete takes his shirt in one hand but pulls Roger closer with the other. "Kiss me first."

"No." Walls forbid, although desire weakens the mortar.

"If I DO put it back on, will you?" Pete upturns pleading eyes while preparing to redress.

"Yes." Roger allows, gratified at how quickly arms slip into sleeves and buttons are fastened with nimbly unfumbling fingers, top two left undone at the throat before Pete's mouth is upon his own and he's tasting tempting tongue. He savors the kiss long enough to satisfy sensation of genuine longing before withdrawing again and raising warning palm. "That's enough."

"It's not..." Pete permits himself to whimper, but won't say 'please'. [Would it matter if I did?]

"It will have to be." Roger decrees "For now." He nods at the six-string acoustic Gibson next to easy chair. "I want you to play for me."

"All right, then." Pete sighs, defiantly determining to pluck out the cheekiest ditties he knows while striving for one more rise. "Your pretty pig...is he better than me?"

[Why does everybody care so fucking much that he's good-looking?] "Apples and oranges. He doesn't play anything LIKE the way you do." Roger praises more than guitar technique "And he can't COMPOSE for shit."

Pete sits down in chair next to Gibson and opens drawer in nearby table. "Hope you don't mind if I indulge in a little pick-me-up before picking up the pick." He draws out tray and begins to cut neat lines with single-edged razor blade.

Roger says nothing, watching Pete lean over with short straw and snort one line up each nostril before offering whole tray with one hand and straw with the other.

"Pass." he disdains. "That shit doesn't agree with me. What does it do for you?"

"Sharpens me up." Pete grins, dropping straw onto tray and tipping it suggestively "Sure you won't try some?"

Roger sneers at offered intoxicant, raising arch eyebrow. "Do you Really Want me any sharper?"

Pete quails at implied threat, setting down the tray. and picking up the guitar. "No, sir...not anytime soon."


	6. Fool The Fools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One Roger is quite enough...

"I thought he'd NEVER leave." Pete crosses the carpet to where Roger stands against a wall and sinks slowly to his knees, hands reaching out as if to take hold of narrow hips near his newly lowered eye level, but Roger's having none of it.

"Get up." he commands curtly, swatting Pete's outstretched fingers with dismissive backhand flick of his own. "Don't touch me. Be glad I didn't leave. I still might, unless you ask me VERY nicely."

"That's what I was TRYING to do." Pete offers insinuating glance but obeys the order, standing up and backing off a step...but only one...remaining in reach. "I've missed you, and want you to stay."

"Then ASK." Roger coolly insists.

[He doesn't give an inch...wonder how many inches he HAS to give?] Pete strives for humble sincerity, although he's sure Roger's mistrustful mind might mine mockery from even the most earnest entreaty. "Will you stay with me...and play with me...Sir?"

[That's still not 'please', but it'll do.] "You're lucky he's stupid." Roger declares dryly "I WOULD have turned around and gone home if you'd pulled that shit in front of your quiet one." He extracts a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, gratified to see Pete quickly pull out a lighter and strike flame for him.

"What 'shit' might that be?" Pete asks, genuinely perplexed, enjoying the sight of Roger smoking and delighting to behold him puff a perfect ring which wafts open over his head in brief semblance of halo before sharp shift breaks it into horns. [He's both at once...each in turn...]

Roger snaps "I deal with REAL dumb quite enough, I'll not have you play it. You were so brazenly obvious it WOULD have been an embarrassment if he weren't a fucking idiot."

"You mean the casual, incidental flirting?" Pete laughs [He's not so smart after all. Time to take him to school.] "Get over yourself. Perhaps you ought not to deem a behavior deviant when you haven't taken proper baseline calibration. He isn't ENTIRELY stupid, and you're not the ONLY man he's seen me tease. It would have been MORE out of character if I HADN'T made much of how I'd rather be alone with you than keep pretending to listen to him rattling on."

Roger will not acknowledge the small stab of jealousy he feels at those words, but does intend to make Pete pay for it. [Not the only one, am I? Very well...no kissing at all this time, unless you beg for it.] "So, you were trying to tease ME by having him hang about?"

"No." Pete admits "I DID want him to leave, and succeeded in making him uncomfortable enough. He's gone, isn't he?"

"Finally..." grumbles Roger, gesturing toward the bar. "Fetch me a drink, Boy."

"Hard or soft?" Pete can't resist japing as he turns to comply.

"Somewhere in between." Roger can play this game, and relishes the company of somebody who's GOOD at it. "Cider, if you have it. Lager if not."

Pete ducks behind the bar to rummage refrigerator, extracting two cold bottles. "What would YOU have said, then, to get rid of pesky fellow?"

"I'd have said 'Fuck off, Junior, grown-ups need to talk.' " Roger smirks, affecting Foghorn Leghorn " 'G'way son, y'bother me.' "

"That would've been RICH." Pete chortles, levering off the caps then crossing the room to offer Roger his hoppy hospitality. "He might have taken a swing at you."

Roger cracks his knuckles menacingly before accepting requested refreshment. "I doubt that. You said he's not ENTIRELY stupid." He imbibes a slow swig before adding "I wouldn't have said it, anyway. Not my place to tell YOUR Roger what to do."

[YOU'RE my Roger. He's just a singer.] "I suppose we do need to think of something else to call him."

Roger sneers "Monkey."

Pete doesn't get it. "He doesn't look...or sound like a monkey."

"You don't see it from the front." Roger deadpans "Yes, he does. Anybody who knows what they're looking at sees you turning the handle, and anybody who listens can tell he sings with YOUR fucking voice."

Pete fishes for further flattery. "Oh, he's a much better singer than I am."

"Not really. Sustained scream is all he has that you don't..." Roger decides to speak his next thought, archly articulating, awaiting reaction "...and I bet you COULD wail in such a melodic manner with the right...persuasion."

[!!!] Pete almost drops his bottle, but raises it to his mouth instead, sure Roger noted his widened eyes and weakened knees and now determined to score a hit of his own. "You say you'd have left if it were John. I've noticed you don't even talk to me when he's around. Why are you so scared of him?"

[More of a healthy vigilance...The Ox would be a dangerous man to anger.] Roger won't quibble. "He's tough...and very protective of you. If he saw us...together...he would KNOW."

"He already knows I want you." Pete airily proclaims, provoking a visible rise.

Roger's pulse quickens as his fingers tighten reflexively on the cool glass. Eyes narrowed, he deliberately modulates his voice to calmly inquire "And how, pray tell, did THAT come up?"

"It didn't need to." assures Pete "We don't discuss that sort of thing." He grins into Roger's glare "I'm sure he believes it's hopelessly unrequited." [Sometimes I do, too.]

"Good." Roger takes a deep, bracing drink. "Make sure it stays that way."

"I can't control what he might suspect...or know...but I can promise he won't HEAR it from me and I'm pretty goddamned sure he won't ASK." Pete's temper flares at the cold condescension [Who the fuck does he think he is?] "We're not a pack of frustrated closet-cases like YOUR fucking family!"

[How DARE he?] Roger has been agonizing whether to deploy the torrid token that's been weighing rather heavily on his mind while coiled lightly in his coat pocket, but now's as good time as any to try. [He DID say he'd like it...'maybe'. Will he accept it?] Setting down not-quite-empty bottle on nearby table, he reaches out to take Pete's from his unresisting hand, tipping it up to drain the dregs before banging it down beside his own.

Pete flinches as Roger slips a hand into his jacket with the fierce fluidity of a man going for weapon. [Not the same pocket as cigarettes. What's he about to pull on me?] Item which emerges wrapped in long fingers is short, supple strip of black leather winking with silver accents. Roger exhibits the collar with superior showmanship, salacious smile and slight jingle of buckle. 

"Do you want it?"

[He was serious about that? Of course he was...he always is.] Pete reaches out for obscene object. "Let me see."

"See with your eyes, not with your hands." Roger says, hoping he sounds far more collected than he feels. "You can't touch it unless you're going to WEAR it."

It's a human collar, not a dog collar. Pete notices the difference, swiveling circular ring set in the front as opposed to D-loop next to buckle, like for animals. He's seen some porn...and even a few live displays...featuring such accoutrements, but has never worn one himself. [Will he make me call him 'Master'?] "Right now?"

"Or never." Roger icily informs "Your choice."

"Yes." Pete berates himself for the eager gasp as he holds out both hands "I'll put it on."

"You WON'T." [It doesn't work that way.] "I will. But it comes with conditions." Roger decrees, amending "Well, only one." He isn't sure Pete will permit the restriction, but he needs to test the extent of his command. "While you wear my collar, you may not speak. Not one word..." He clarifies calculatingly "...but nonverbal vocalizations are allowed." [Encouraged, even.]

[Fuck him...it's only a trick to shut me up...but I want it...] "If I really need to say something, I'll just take it off first." Pete acquiesces.

"Well, obviously." Roger remarks, delighted Pete's keen to play. "But if you do that the current...session...will immediately end. Now turn around, if you want this one to start."

Pete obeys, thrilling to feel heated exhalations on the back of his neck and the pressing proximity as Roger steps close against him to wrap the warm leather around his throat, curious and excitedly apprehensive as to what deviant demands might develop. 

[My turn to play The Quiet One...wonder how long I can last? I'll be a good Boy...for now. Let's see what he's got.]


	7. Take The Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This Guitar Has Seconds To Live" or "El Kabong Rides Again"

"Have you ever smashed one OFFstage..." Roger inquires, coolly surveying array of guitars "...or is that purely a bearbaiting affectation?'

"Has it baited YOU?" Pete is well aware destructive displays entice [That's why I keep doing it.] "Any bears in there?'

"Yesyes, it's very sexy." [That's why he keeps doing it.] "Sounds like shiT, though. Does it hurt your hands?"

[Like a mad bastard, every time, but I won't tell him.] "I know what I'm doing."

"What you're NOT doing is answering my original question. Is it a put-on?" [Of course it is, but how MUCH of one? He's such a showman...Is this Thing with me just another act?] 

"Can't you tell?" Pete teases.

"No." Roger tersely admits, snapping "Perhaps I could, if I had time to see more of your shows, but I'm too busy...y'know, WRITING." [He understands that.] "Now ANSWER me..."

Pete almost replies to the veiled threat (as he would to anybody else's intimidation attempts) with a risible 'Or WHAT?', but has learned Roger more often responds with ice than with fire. [It's so humiliating when he makes me beg him to stay...but I always do.] "The first time was an accident." He acknowledges "Place had stupidly low ceiling and I kept crackin' headstock into it...knockin' myself out of key...realized brainless boppers didn't know true tune ANYway, then saw John was laughing at me across dinky postage-stamp stage." Pete sighs "It wasn't very smart...still owed money on that guitar...but I gave in to frustration and rage." He steps closer, stopping with their chests mere inches apart, trying to gauge whether an embrace will be permitted. "I suffer from both...think you do, too."

[Admission MIGHT have bought him a kiss, if he hadn't tacked on that last dig.] "What an intemperate creature you are." Roger scornfully scolds "It's wasteful and foolish to trash your own tools."

"Well, it's cruel...and possibly criminal...to wreck somebody ELSE's stuff." Pete retorts.

"Maybe so..." Roger allows, slipping an arm around to draw Pete tightly against him, fingers tracing curve of spine "...but it can be VERY satisfying."

[!!!] "What a spiteful creature YOU are." Pete melts under masterful touch, murmuring "Is breaking a man...or his possessions...such splendid satisfaction for you?"

Roger could quibble all day about the many meanings of both 'breaking' and 'satisfaction', but knows Pete could, too. Verbal sparring, stimulating as it can be, is not the thrill he's seeking now. "That depends on how I feel about him." he inclines head downward until lips loom near enough to Pete's for heat to bloom between them, but not quite close enough to touch.

[He wants me to ask, but I WON'T. Let's see how HE likes being denied.] Pete pulls away and sweeps gesture to indicate arrayed instruments without taking his eyes from Roger's. "You can't break ME..." he taunts [Oh, how I'd bend, though.] "...but if you care to...satisfy...your sadistic urges another way I offer pick of the litter."

Roger had hoped Pete would take the not-quite kiss further, thereby allowing conquest of contact without impetus of initiation, but immediately understands why he hadn't. [I don't WANT to break him. Whatever this is, it wouldn't work with a weakling. His power and pride make the submission sweeter.] "Are you proposing to sacrifice your tools upon the altar of my pleasure?"

"Only ONE." Pete clarifies suggestively "Your choice, though."

[He'd really let me kill one of his guitars? Hell, he'd probably get off on it.] Mildly miffed at the rebuff of his embrace, Roger peruses instruments on display, determined to destroy whichever one reactions reveal is Pete's favorite. As he paces between electrics and acoustics, faintly fingering each in turn, he watches shrewdly for subtle signs of especial attachment but sees none. [Either he's got a better poker face than I'd thought...and knows what I'm about...or he truly doesn't care which I choose.]

Observing Roger prowl and scowl, Pete fantasizes the teasing touches across necks of his guitars becoming fiercely fisted throttle, that long, lean form arching backward with doomed instrument raised above at arc's apogee. Every occasion alone with this magnificent man is a longing, lustful simmer, but the thought of Roger's destructive exertions excites him toward rolling boil. [Couldn't keep his damnable cool during THAT...not if wildly wanton ways he attacks the cymbals during heap-of-noise title track are any indication...so-called song is a musical mess...more like "Wastebin Full Of Whatever". He can do better, and he knows it, but he might not know how beautiful he looks while enthralled in thrash...wish I could see his expression when he's beating ME.]

Although unable to ascertain which guitar's demise might incur greater grief, Roger can nonetheless discern that the prospect of seeing ANY of them smashed stirs their owner to overtly obscene anticipation. "I've decided..." He declares, picking up resplendent Rickenbacker. [This one's the most comely and costly.] "...that it wouldn't please me to break one of YOUR treasures, after all." He detaches the strap before replacing six-string onto stand, snapping leather length between his hands. "I do, however, have a use for THIS in mind."

* * * *

[Of course he looks at the case before my face. Just for that, I'll strip him of speech before permitting a peek.]

[Has he brought me a present? Of course not...He understands an instrument, like a pet, has to be chosen by the one who'll be walking it.. He wouldn't give me a guitar. Why does he bear one?] "We've never played...music...together." Pete smiles in warm welcome. 

"We won't today." Roger sternly states, tossing the hard case dismissively onto nearby chaise with enough force for Pete's educated ear to dissect the clatter and buzz of wood and wire inside. "Do you still burn to observe me emulate your stage antics?"

[Too light for one, too solid for another...that's a hollowbody hybrid in there.] "You brought it to break it?"

"If you have available a suitable location in which to do so."

[!!!] "What's wrong with right here?"

Roger surveys the room, seeing no surface sturdy enough for shatter, save perhaps the walnut bar. Thick carpet and cheap wall paneling Thing would either bounce off or crash through. Pete scuffs rounded toe of one Dr. Marten beneath edge of luxurious rug, flipping heavy woven textile up to reveal the solid marble floor beneath. [HOW haven't I noticed that before? Damn, he's such a delicious distraction.] "Fetch an amplifier, Boy. I wish to play it...briefly...first."

Pete moves to comply, but makes sure it seems more saunter than scurry. He's never witnessed any man ritualistically rend a guitar the way he does, and has never even seen Roger PLAY one before. [Obviously he CAN...but what tune will emerge?] Quick duck into adjacent room snags nearest noisebox, and upon return beholds Roger holding his [My!] collar in one taunting hand.

"Plug it in, then come here."

Pete cannot resist speaking his mind. "What, can't take any commentary from the peanut gallery? Gotta shut me up before you show what a rubbish guitarist you are?"

[Exactly. Nothing gets past him.] "If you'd rather critique my technique, I suppose that's fine." Roger allows "But if you want to watch me break it you WILL accept temporary condition of silence."

"It's prob'ly a beater piece of shit that'll be better put out of its misery." Pete jibes, jauntily jabbing amp's plug into wall socket then standing to regally regard. "Pawnshop pickup half-cracked already."

"I promise you it isn't." Roger says so solemnly that Pete grasps this ritual is well worth acquiescence.

[Any last words?] "Ready when you are." Pete raises his chin to bare his throat.

"Turn around." Roger commands.

"No." Pete defies "I want to look you in the eye while you put it on." [Can he work the buckle blind?]

Roger reaches to wrap the collar around Pete's neck, deftly connecting metal tongue through leather hole while breathing in cloyingly conjugal closeness, sure shrewdness susses stirred sensibilities. [Dreamed for days about destroying pretty Thing, but all I want now is a kiss...How does he do this to me? Well, when he SEES it, he'll be the one yearning.]

[Would I rather a kiss, or to learn what's in the case? Suppose it's out of my hands, now.] 

Roger steps back and turns away, bending toward guitar case and unsnapping the latches. Pete crowds close behind, peering intently to glean first glimpse of instrument inside. A hungry moan escapes his eagerly parted lips to espy pristine Gretsch White Falcon, golden fittings agleam against unmarred porcelain-esque enamel. 

[He means to BREAK this? No wonder he forbade my words first. I would NEVER destroy something so lovely. Is it worth revoking the collar to make a monetary offer? No...He wouldn't consent to transaction...but he WOULD love to see me beg to spare it.] Sudden understanding dawns, and although Pete's no less desirous to handle gorgeous guitar, the realization it's stolen halts his reaching hands and quirks his mouth into superior smirk. [Can't smack pretty Pig, so you trash his toy?]

Roger lifts gleaming Gretsch from case and uncoils cord from beneath, flicking finger across tip of pickup before ramming probe into body's socket and tossing other end to Pete, who obligingly connects it to amplifier. [He wants it...Ugh, guitarists. What makes them ogle especially shapely or expensive Things as if they'd rather play with their dicks than their picks? I get on well with my Fender, but won't be getting it on with it. I love my baby grand, but, grand as it is, it's not my fucking baby.] There is no strap, but he won't need one...won't be playing long. 

Pete expects a ripping snarl, and is astonished at the clear, bell-like notes that ring cleanly from Roger's fingers, so very different from rapid rickety-tickety or keening bends distinctive of the man who'd evidently bought the instrument (and who, perhaps, has never played it). [Graham Nash? No, that's a Harrison composition, if memory serves. How do the lyrics go...?] Recalling the words, Pete almost bursts into song but stops himself, unsure if singing is permitted under constraint of collar. 

["If I needed someone to love, you're the one that I'd be thinking of...If I needed someone. If I had some more time to spend, then I guess I'd be with you my friend...If I needed someone."]

Roger continues to levelly regard Pete as he plays, knowing he dare not sing the words but hoping brilliant Boy knows them.

["Had you come some other day then it might not have been like this...Can't you see now I'm too much in love?"]

Pete takes a tentative step closer, but immediately retreats as Roger savagely yanks out and flings away connecting cord. 

"I'm NOT going to break it plugged in. I fucking hate that shrill screelly sound YOU make when you go all Quick Draw McGraw." 

Fierce fingers find fattest string, hook beneath and tear away with rapacious rip yielding terrible twang before dropping down to attempt the same upon whammy bar, which he bends beyond repair but fails to break away. Twinkling, falcon-emblazoned pickguard is far easier to lever loose, and Roger flicks it sharply toward Pete's feet before following suit with two tone knobs viciously torqued off in rapid succession to clatter onto stone floor. 

Pete allows slight swoon to show, much as he's often noted from front row. [I just break the body, but he's fucking KILLING it first...ripping it apart with his bare hands.]

Broad thumb slides up headstock to lasciviously lever tuning peg of severed string, and as Roger feels it bending under pressure becomes aware of burgeoning tumescence. [Happens with the gong, too...hmmm...thought it was the vibration but maybe it's percussive power...essence of destruction. How do drummers stand it?...Might be the way he's looking at me, though. Watch THIS!] Determined to take two, Roger's next brutal break comes at cost. Twin snap happens, but sharply slices skin, provoking involuntary hiss. Sure Pete has already noted evident erection, Roger turns his back to conceal concerned inspection, relieved to find furrowed fingers messily but only superficially wounded. Severing steel strings hasn't cut into his own taut cables, and the sight of his welling blood, surprisingly, does nothing to quell the pulse of it in his prick.

[What's he hiding? Doesn't want me to see he's got a hard-on? Too late.] Pete's sporting wood himself, but eagle eyes haven't alit...there...although he'd like very much for Roger to know how strongly his performance is stirring. When Roger turns back to Face The Face, Pete gasps to behold scarlet spatters besmirching alabaster enamel, evoking thoughts of Grimm's 'Snow White And Rose Red'. [Half of London's likely beheld MY blood, but I'd bet precious few have ever seen HIS. How badly is he bitten? Such sharp smile...how hard might he bite?]

"Get back." Roger commands. "I won't stop until it's shattered, and shall make no apologies for collateral damage to floors, furniture...or flesh." [I have no idea what I'm doing, and no clue how this Thing will break. He's going to laugh at me...]

Pete retreats behind the bar, watching Roger kick back the rug to expose more unforgiving surface as his hands choke up closer on the Gretsch's neck. [Oh, he's going to hurt himself like that...perhaps not, though...those hands look so veryveryveryVERY hard. He's probably practiced.]

[I should have practiced...] Roger carefully considers, and realizes the only way to build proper momentum is with that stupidly showy over-the-top over-the-head move he'd hoped to avoid. [Guess he DOES know what he's doing.]

Desirously delving Roger's deliberation, Pete decides that, since he's at the bloody bar, he may as well pour a drink. As he does, his cock swells so painfully against the buttons of his trousers he elects to release it. One hand on the bottle of Remy Martin and the other undoing his flies, he fills a glass with one hand while taking himself firmly in the other.

Roger takes a deep breath and gathers his strength. [What if it doesn't break? I'll look so stupid.] He swings Dirty Dave's pure white treasure in a smooth upward arc and sweeps it swiftly down to connect with sublimely splintering crash onto marble floor.

[What a fine flex of spine he has in body. His figurative one is so rigid...wonder if he'd ever let me stroke any OTHER stiffness he so clearly possesses?] Pete groans aloud at Roger's obvious pleasure that the Gretsch has severely split, and thrills that his involuntary noise draws attention, blazing gaze seeming to sear his very soul as Roger prepares to strike once more.

[Fuck, that HURTS! How strong he must be...could take me apart easier than this guitar if he chose, but kneels at my feet. Is he jerking off? I must be doing SOMETHING right. Cracked along whole side seam...feels like a wobbly tooth. One more hit's sure to do it...] Another strong stroke sends shattered shards skittering, winking bits of inlay pinging merrily across stone as the spine parts completely from the body and Roger raises back up clutching only fretboard and headstock to behold Pete's countenance afire with arousal. [Not as good as he could do...]

[WAY better than I've done...nobody'd EVER ask if THAT was a put-on.] 

Bright blood streaking broken spar, Roger strides in lustful lather to slam snapped stock atop the bar. Snatching up Pete's untouched drink, he downs half before regarding it in age-old optimist/pessimist dilemma. Tall enough to peer behind walnut barrier, he strives for cool condescension but knows Pete perceives prurient passion.

Obviously aware but not acknowledging what Pete's up to, Roger softly sings "Carve your number on my wall and maybe you will get a call from me...If I needed someone."

[If he tells me to stop I will rip off this collar and say 'NO'.]


	8. Call The Calls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roger accepts an intense wakeup call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Pete's lines in this chapter are lyrics from the FACE DANCES track "Daily Records", which I often sing as "Dirty Records".

Roger snaps immediately awake at the first ring but gives it two more, forcing his eyes and mind to focus before answering. He deliberately keeps irregular sleeping hours and never needs many [Can't ambush what you can't predict.], but even the few folk entrusted with his private phone number should believe they'd disturbed his work, not his rest. None would dare do so without dire cause.

"If this isn't either REALLY bad or REALLY good news you'll be REALLY sorry." 

Pete's fingers not wrapping receiver fly to feel fluttering pulse at his throat, connotations of Roger's collar arising at terse tone of the threat. [He might not be alone...Well, that's not MY fucking problem.] "This could be suffering..." he solemnly strives for gnomic gravitas "...this could be pleasure. I'm unaware of any difference."

[!!!] Roger sits up eagerly to hear favorite voice, managing to conceal excitement with cordial inquiry. "What can I do for you?" [Obtaining this number couldn't have been easy, but he's incredibly resourceful...and phenomenally persuasive. I'll MAKE him tell me who gave it up when next we're together.]

[He'd never ask me that if we were face-to-face.] Pete has been working up the courage to place this call, cognac emboldening him enough to implore "Can you come over?"

Roger COULD [Slick of him to frame it that way...can't let him play me.] but although he'd very much like to again engage brilliant, bold Boy he's aware it might set a dangerous precedent to start coming when called. "No. I'm busy."

"Doing what?" Pete pries, purveying prurience "...or WHO?"

"None of your business." comes out cold, but Roger's next words are friendlier. "We can talk a while, though. What's on your mind?"

"My head is aging..." Pete sighs, topping off his glass "...my balls are aching, but I'm not looking for deliverance."

Discerning clink and gurgle, Roger probes "Are you drunk?"

Pete will not dignify that. "This could be letting on...this could be highly cut. I'm unaware of any difference." He's not sure exactly what he wants to say, but the words which coalesce are, as usual, an accurate, articulate assessment of his feelings. [Most don't see that...think I'm just being clever and cryptic...but he sees everything.] "One says it can't be done, then someone does it first. I am not looking for equivalents. I can't exist no more in chains and fetters." [Figuratively speaking, anyway...would willingly wear literal ones for him.]

[Fuck, he's about to declare love. At least he won't expect me to say it back.] Roger remains silent as Pete carries on.

"I just don't quite know how to wear my hair no more..." Pete laments "...no sooner cut it than they cut it even more." Downing another deep drink, he tries to organize the conflicting jumble of his thoughts. "Got to admit that I created private worlds, but cold sex and booze don't impress my little girls."

Wonderful woodnotes wild within Pete's rambling, repetitious rant intently impress upon Roger's linguistic sensibilities. [What a natural poet he is. I have to break my balls over lyrics but, even soused, lovely lines just tumble out of him.] "So don't offer them any." He quips "They'll be plenty happy to spend your money. That's sure to garner SOME respect."

"I need you even more..." Pete passionately proclaims "...my money keeps me poor. They say it's just a stage in life, but I know by now the problem is a stage...and they say 'Just take your time and it'll go away', but I know by now I'll never, never change." His head swims and his erection throbs. "I think I need to lie down."

"All right, then." Roger tries to keep the disappointment from his voice. [He woke me up for nothing. Glad I didn't head over...he'd have been passed out before I got there.] "Go sleep it off. Good night."

"No!" Pete blurts desperately "Don't hang up." [I know what he wants...if I surrender, will he give me what I want?] "Please let me take you to bed with me like this...since you won't in the flesh."

[He's right...I won't...but he finally said 'please'. If I refuse now, he might never say it again.] "Okay." he tersely concedes.

[Wow, that IS a magic word...wonder what other doors it might open with him?] "Thank you, Sir." Hooking handset over padded armrest, Pete arises from easy chair and hurries down the hall toward his bedroom. Quickly shucking off clothes, he slips beneath sheets naked before picking up his bedside phone to ask anxiously "Still there?"

"Go hang up the other line." Roger commands, recalling several occasions he's eavesdropped and unwilling for this conversation to be overheard. His pulse quickens and his prick thickens to imagine Pete lying in bed...thinking about him.

"Don't worry." Pete assures "I have the place all to myself tonight." He doesn't know that, but Roger doesn't either, so... "Please don't make me get up."

Roger surprises himself with blunt vulgarity. "I bet your cock is up...and in your hand." [Just like when I smashed the Gretsch.] 

"I'm still amazed at your omnipotence." Pete fondly flatters, stroking Roger's ego and his own stiffness simultaneously, asking "Is yours?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second." Roger admits.

Pete can't resist cliché phone-sex inquiry "What are you wearing?"

Nothing but boxers...barely. [So hard it feels like tent could tear...] "Don't be stupid." Roger warns, disinclined to describe scant sleepwear.

"I could be losing you..." Pete sighs, squeezing harder as he imagines Roger's fierce fingers in place of his own "...I could be coming through...I'm unaware of any difference."

"You're fine..." Roger means that in so many ways, and is unable to resist slipping a hand inside his shorts as he recollects ecstatic expression infusing noble features during Pete's onanistic exhibition behind the bar. [He'd do this for me...and more...if I'd let him. Could I?] "...don't stop."

Pete couldn't if he wanted. "You still support me now..." He wishes it were Roger's actual ear into which he were breathing, next words emerging in ragged pants "...and love me anyhow...and I am still under your influence." [So close...wish I could scream his name but Monkey might be around and think I mean HIM.] He does cry out, but utterance is wordless, as pressure of tautly tuned tension explosively releases.

"Ohhh..." Low moan escapes unbidden at sound and ideation of Pete's pleasure. [I do want him for himself, but it's so fucking hot how much he wants ME.]

"You're doing it now, aren't you?" Pete murmurs, listening to Roger's respiration speed as his own slows.

"Yessss..." Roger hisses, growling through gritted teeth "Yes, you wicked, beastly Boy, you're making me touch myself."

"If I were there, would you let ME touch you?"

[This wouldn't be happening in person...hate how he looks when he's sopped too much sauce...regal bearing asway and customarily captivating countenance occluded by lidded leer...those hauntingly gorgeous eyes...watching me jerk off...ohhhh.] Roger's intense arousal spurs him to spill his fevered fantasy "If you were here, I'd put you on your knees so I could spurt across your beautiful blue eyes."

Although sticky streaks spattering skin have not yet cooled, a fresh tremor of lust courses Pete's flesh at Roger's wanton words, and he hotly urges "I want that...Will you come for me right now?" adding a quietly yearning "Please?"

Since they're safely separated, Roger supposes he can give in...put out...just this once. Pete HAD asked so nicely, after all.


	9. Stand The Stands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete is not an easy audience

[That's the THIRD time he's deliberately played the wrong note. He's TRYING to arouse my ire.] Roger brings the belt down in sharply snapping swat across Pete's shoulders.

[That's the THIRD time he's hit me for fixing HIS clumsy composition. All right, playtime's over.] Pete stands with swift swivel, arising from piano bench. One hand snakes to snatch long length of leather from Roger's fist while the other reaches behind his neck to unbuckle shorter strip. Casting collar onto carpet between Roger's boots, Pete snarls "I'm not taking a beating for YOUR fucking mistake! You WROTE the wrong note, Toe-rag!" He furiously flings his belt across the room, punctuating gesture with further aggrieved insult "Tosser!"

Roger stands his ground, but berates himself for allowing shock to show. [How stupid to underestimate him...KNEW how fast he can move...he saw me flinch when he raised the lash...won't EVER let THAT happen again...if my command hasn't suffered too much in his esteem to permit future play, I'll be sure to keep it wrapped around my hand from now on.] He'd always considered the you're-beautiful-when-you're-angry trope a ridiculous cliché, but now finds Pete's fierce defiance awesomely attractive.

"You thought I was going to strike you..." Pete laughs in Roger's face. "What would you have done if I HAD?" [He's about to frost up, take his toys and go home...better get my licks in while I can.]

[I'm swift, too...he knows that...saw it coming, could have avoided...used his momentum against him and knocked him down...couldn't I?] "You wouldn't DARE." Roger declares, still on guard in case he could be wrong. He points stern finger downward, indicating discarded collar. "Pick that up."

"I won't..." proclaims Pete, mimicking direct digit, pointing toward keyboard "...unless you go play it RIGHT."

Roger's regard remains upon blazing blue brilliance hovering in haughty judgement as he approaches the piano and bends to apply touch upon the black and the white. [I WROTE the fucking thing, I know how it fucking goes...but...] Rippling through riff, he permits Pete's one-note correction and thrills to realize his own error. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he feels his cock start to swell as he whips out ballpoint pen and breaks intense eye contact to turn around and make correction on the page he'd painstakingly composed and has as of yet shown no one except the magnificent man behind him.

[He CAN bend...he's not stubborn, after all.] Pete stoops to retrieve the collar, but is unable to stretch out offer to return it because Roger immediately takes him in impassioned embrace as soon as he straightens up, arms slipping around his waist and hands sliding both up and down to simultaneously caress back and buttock, firmly cupping and pulling him near while the collar dangles limply at his side, threatening to slip back onto the floor.

"When you're right, you drive me wild." Roger utters simple truth before pressing parted lips to Pete's, watching eyes widen with surprise then narrow in excitement [...or suspicion?] as the kiss deepens.

[He never closes his eyes...] Pete normally would...with anybody else...but since Roger doesn't, he can't either, and the two men continue observing one another closely while their tongues entwine. [He's never gripped or kissed me this hard...oh, my...'hard' indeed...said I drive him wild...must be true, he's never lied, either...perhaps he CAN'T. Hmmm...that could be exploitable.] Tilting his head away to disengage from kiss, Pete slides hand holding the collar up along Roger's thigh, single fingertip barely but deliberately brushing bulge, discerning stiffening of spine and that double blink Pete has come to recognize as discombobulation. Hand glides upward into the warmth beneath Roger's coat, along taut planes of chest, before Pete slips collar neatly back into the pocket from whence it had been conjured, daring personal question he'd often desired to pose.

"Am I your first foray into...men?"

[Yes, but he doesn't need to hear it. Might start him thinking he knows best...probably does, but..] "Nosy Boy..." Roger softly scolds, touching light lips to tip of noble nose at issue. [On ME, a big beak just looks witchy, but HIS is splendid. Wonder if there's any correlation to...couldn't see very well behind the bar...was mostly looking at his face, anyway.] "...why does that matter?"

"Matters to YOU." Pete reminds "You raked me over the coals for details about my...past."

"Ah, but you WANTED to be...raked...yes? Practically beg for it with cryptic comments and arch allusion, flagrantly flaunting such provocative...speech. You enjoy being FORCED to lay bare your dirty secrets, don't you? You feel desired when somebody wants more than you share."

[How does he KNOW? No, it's just a lucky...educated...guess.] "Doesn't everybody, really?"

"NOT really." Roger rebukes "SOME people know how to say 'none of your business' and MEAN it."

"You said that on the phone, but then you stayed...up...with me and said MUCH more interesting things."

Roger remembers every intriguingly nuanced word of unexpectedly intimate conversation, but isn't sure Pete does. [He was pretty lit.] "What was the MOST interesting thing I said?"

"That I was MAKING you touch yourself." Pete promptly responds with trace of tease "Hadn't thought I...anybody...could make YOU do anything."

[He WOULD seize upon one wrong word...one wrong note...was the word wrong, though? DID he somehow MAKE me...?]

"Then you said you'd put me on my knees." Pete moves to follow wicked words with affectionate action, but Roger grips him firmly by the biceps, arresting slow, salacious sink.

"I did want that...then...but I don't now." Roger steers him back toward the piano bench and pushes him to sit upon it. Keeping both hands and intense regard on Pete, he moves to sit down next to him facing the opposite direction. Once his body is pointed toward the keyboard, he slides gaze over his own work while fingers slip along strong length of arms to settle decisively onto ivories. He turns head back to offer quiet proposition. "Now I want you to kiss me while I play it RIGHT."

Pete is eager to oblige, but first wants to know..."Which is harder..." he runs eager hand along Roger's erection "...to share with me...this?" He squeezes softly, delighted Roger does not stop him or seem at all displeased. He jerks his chin at scribbled notes atop the piano "Or this?"

"Which do you like better?" Roger begins to play and leans in, awaiting Pete's kiss but ablaze for his answer.

"Haven't had enough of either to know yet.." Pete ardently avows "...but both are amazing..." he can't resist final barb before what he hopes will be the last words spoken for a lovely long while "...excepting one note."


	10. Watch The Flix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can You See The Real Me?"

"Where was this stupid thing made?"

Roger had correctly surmised it would be pornographic from the tone of Pete's suggestion they 'take in a film' and, although he has little interest in conventional smut, he'd very much wanted to get inside Whoville's home theatre. The room in which the two men repose at ease together upon luxurious sofa is as tastefully appointed as the cheap chamber projected upon the screen is tacky.

"America, I should say." Pete guesses from brassy accents within both the voices and hairstyles of performers. "California, most likely. Why?"

"The décor is hideous. I've never beheld an uglier carpet-and-drape scheme."

Pete laughs in spite of his mild irritation at Roger's derisive disdain. "Are you talking about the furnishings or the follicles?"

"Both. Hate that haystack-y overbleaching. Hair should be soft..." Roger resists urge to caress a lock of Pete's. [Can't reward him for trying to sway me with this banal barnyard dreck.] "...and that couch is the most appalling article outside of an insane asylum."

[He's seen INSIDE one?] "You're looking at the COUCH? Not the arse wriggling on it?"

"Her backside IS considerably more appealing than her front." Roger grudgingly allows.

"You don't like her tits? Too big or too small for your tastes?"

"Her TEATS are fine...enough. I don't like her face, and her voice makes me cringe." [Thankfully the dick halfway down her throat prevents further aural affront.] "She looks like a heifer, and sounds like one, too."

Pete happens to think the actress is quite pretty, but supposes Roger speaks more of demeanor than appearance. "I guess dulcet tones are an attribute not sought when casting filthy films." he agrees "Perhaps they should be."

"What a perfect day job for Monkey." Roger quips, provoking Pete's chuckle.

"Give him time, I've no doubt he'll figure that out for himself. Give this a chance, too. It gets good here in a minute." Pete promises.

Roger deduces what Pete means by 'good' is the onscreen arrival of a second stallion, who begins to make similar use of fecund female animal's hindquarters to what the other stud has been making of her mouth. [Does he deem this coital configuration particularly pleasing ?] "Oh, now, REALLY, where the fuck did HE come from, anyway?" Roger grouses "Not even an introduction...or an invitation?"

"You're overthinking this." Pete teases.

"ANY thinking renders it utterly ridiculous."

"So stop analyzing every damned detail..." Pete urges "...and just enjoy it."

"The first of those suggestions is impossible, so the second is extremely unlikely...unless you offer something more...stimulating to think about."

Pete attempts appetizing food for thought. "Have YOU ever engaged multiple partners?"

"Concurrently, yes." Roger confides "Simultaneously, no, but I could perhaps be persuaded...if you and your lovely wife were to ask me VERY nicely."

Pete is taken aback. "That wasn't a proposition."

"Wasn't it?" Roger delves "Why else would you show me...this?"

"Maybe I WAS leading up to a...different proposition..." Pete awkwardly admits "...but THAT one might make me too jealous."

"Jealous of me..." Roger archly inquires "...or of her?"

[Worried I'd be left out.] Pete feels uncomfortable saying it, but is sure Roger already knows. "Both." he quietly acknowledges.

Pete's flustered face is far more arousing than filmed fornication could ever be, and Roger rewards uncharacteristically straight, albeit brief, answer with reprieve from sensitive subject. [I'll press THIS point again another time.] "What proposition WERE you prepared to make, then?"

"I had hoped we might pick up where we left off last time." Pete confesses, resting a hand lightly upon Roger's knee. "I was burning when you told me to stop."

[I know...becoming clumsy with looming lust...touch shifting from fondle to grope...that's why I called a halt when I did.] Roger stands abruptly, holding out a hand to receive the clasp of fingers fallen from lean leg, pulling Pete to his feet beside him. "Back to the piano? Very well." Pete draws nearer, reaching out with unheld hand, but Roger steps backward, attempting to lead him along. Pete remains rooted, and Roger lets go at first sign of resistance. [He's stronger...won't try to move him.]

"I'd rather stay here." Pete had entertained notion of dragging Roger back down onto the sofa [I COULD pull him on top of me, but would that excite or anger him?] but now dares no further contact except with eager eyes as he continues "A piano bench leaves...left...much to be desired for what I have in mind."

"WhatEVER you have in mind will NOT happen with THIS playing." Roger sharply insists, scolding "What were you thinking?"

[Wanted to see how he'd react. Now I know.] "What would you prefer?"

"Something with GOOD music...and no distracting idiotic noises."

Pete briefly considers. "I have the Moscow Ballet's SWAN LAKE." [Will he think that's fruity?]

[Beautiful. Performers clothed...and mute.] "That'll do nicely. Now silence this shallow shitshow."

"So, you don't partake of porn at ALL?" Pete asks, sauntering to shut off the projector, plunging the room into darkness before Roger moves to switch on ambient lights.

"I didn't say THAT." he clarifies "The written stuff can be...interesting..." [Especially works of Marquis de Sade.] "...and I admit to hoarding a secret stash of French postcards in my misbegotten youth, but blue movies have never done much for me."

Pete rummages stack of film canisters and unearths the one sought, imagining naughty adolescent Roger abed with well-thumbed photos. "Why not?"

"They're fake." Roger promptly responds with a crooked grin "If I want to watch strangers humping for REAL, I need only attend the right parties." [More entertaining sex has probably gone down in this very room than anything you've got on film.]

Pete pounces upon one word. "Strangers? Would you watch the flix if they starred people you know?"

"Absolutely!" Roger unabashedly leers. "Are there any featuring YOU?"

[Well, there is ONE...certainly obscene but not sure if it qualifies as porn.] Pete begins swapping out reels. "Would you be...interested...if there WERE?"

"Yes." Roger simply affirms "Let's watch THAT instead of ballet." [Peter is much more marvelous...and alive...than Pyotr. Oh, what I could LEARN about him...]

"Not this time." Pete forestalls. [He WANTS to see me naked...to watch me fucking...] "You've got to let me have SOME secrets so you'll keep coming back." He knows as the words leave his lips that Roger might make him pay for telling him what he's 'got to' do, and is astonished to hear the single-word utterance accompanying humble expression.

"Please?"

[!!!] "No." Pete coolly denies, connecting filmstrip into projector and flipping the switch. As Tchaikovsky's overture swells along with his cock, he boldly strides across the room to take Roger's hand in one of his while turning off overhead incandescence with the other. "That would be too much of a distraction. I want you to see The Real Me. Can you?"

"I like to think so..." Roger permits Pete to lead him back to the couch "...but I'd like to see more."

"How much more?" Pete's heart hammers, pounding pulse in his ears drowning out the tympani within symphony.

They sit down together, arms slipping around each other and lips connecting briefly before Roger speaks. "However much you're willing to show..." another light kiss "...to share."

[Does he mean it?] "That would be everything, then." Pete's hand slides downward to find Roger as hard as he is, and his fingers grasp tab of zipper, only to be harshly halted.

"Don't."

A small noise of frustration escapes. "You said whatever I wanted."

"I didn't." Roger corrects "I said whatever YOU'RE willing to share. If you'll recall, our original terms stipulate MY clothes stay on." He pushes Pete backward until he's lying down, then offers firm squeeze, gratified at gasping groan his touch elicits. "If you want to take YOURS off, that's a different matter entirely."

"You won't make me do it myself, will you?" Pete pleads, not meaning merely disrobing.

In unspoken answer, Roger unbuckles Pete's belt and begins unbuttoning his fly. [Sick of the word 'stingy'. I can be generous without being compromised...I'm a quick study...I can figure this...him...out.] "Do you need your boots off first?"

"No." Pete sighs, shoving shorts and trousers down past his hips, erection jutting stiffly into Roger's softly stroking hand. "I just need you to promise you won't say 'stop' this time."

"I won't..." Roger assures "...as long as you're a good Boy and let me know what else you need with your WORDS." he continues to run gentle grasp up and down, warning "No pushing or pulling."

Pete writhes under touch he's so long desired, but which isn't as firm as he'd imagined. "Harder." he moans. 

"Harder pressure or rougher friction?" [Damn, he's thick...should've expected it. So strong and solid everywhere ELSE.]

"Pressure." Pete groans, glorying at grip's immediate increase, resisting desire to close his eyes as he usually would and instead inspecting Roger's studious expression flicking between his cock and his face. [Those hands look so hard...who knew they'd be so gentle?] "More."

[More? Any harder would HAVE to hurt...wouldn't it? Damned if I let him handle MY dick...anytime soon.] Roger squeezes tighter, but has to ask "Is this a masochism Thing or an insensitivity issue?"

"I'm not insensitive." Pete defends, struggling to articulate further while literally in the grip of such pleasure " It doesn't hurt...don't want it to...but I want YOU...harder...faster." [Like I've dreamed...]

Roger complies with speed and torque, slipping his other hand experimentally beneath to cup and palpate swollen sack, slick clear seepage facilitating touch at tip.

Pete's beginning to buck, finding it nearly impossible to keep his eyes open but knowing Roger will be more interested in the sight of his expression than the vision of his imminent ejaculation. "Can You See The Real Me?" he cries out, echoing with subsequent spurts "...The Real Me...the real me...therealme?"


	11. Rule The Rules

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Common sense would tell me not to try and continue/ But I'm after a piece of that diamond in you."

[Bloody hell, coming up the drive thusly encumbered, I must look like Maria. "I Have Confidence" is disgustingly appropriate here. No doubt he's singing it to behold my approach.]

Roger's twin grips tighten upon handles of both bass case and satchel, hands holding black leather burdens as appraising gaze approvingly appropriates beautiful Bentley idling in the drive, inclining head in acknowledging greeting upon passing awaiting chauffeur, wondering who soon departs or has just arrived.

[Damn him, he said we'd be entirely alone were I to arrive right now...suppose I can't begrudge his popularity, but it COULD be another esoteric experiment. If whoever it is isn't leaving soon, suppose I shan't stay, after all, although intriguing invitation incites interesting ideation.]

"Damn you, Woman!" Pete hisses "I TOLD you he'd be right on time. The car's been waiting fifteen minutes while you've blithered about. Now we have no choice...Face Two, immediately." He strides past his wife to open the door, confident she'll obey orders.

Karen knows the drill, and is somewhat surprised Pete stipulated 'Society Wife Face' TWO for this particular guest, rather than default ONE ('smile and nod prettily where appropriate but speak briefly and sweetly only in answer to direct question') or expected THREE ('ditzy, devoted dame all to blame for distracting long-suffering husband away from bigger, better things'). She's happy to do it, though. Face Two asks for sprightly, flirty flattery, and she's been longing to learn why Waters so stirs Pete's thirst.

Pete faces Roger across threshold, noting eagle eyes ogling stately sedan before flicking to meet his own. [Yes, he appreciates fine curves. Let's see how he approves Karen's.] "The car was late..." he smoothly dissembles "...or we WOULD have been alone."

Karen quickly takes her cue, smiling brightly as she sidles past Pete to greet Roger as if in regretful hurry. "Sorry I must be going, but I'm SO glad to see you again, Sir. Pete speaks VERY highly of you and I would LOVE a chance to talk, sometime when neither of us have anywhere else to be."

['Sir'? Stop suspicious sniffing...not necessarily deliberate dig...she might not know my name...not certain of hers.] Roger allows gaze to obviously, overtly devour as he speaks to the woman while registering reaction of the man. "Wonderful to...see...you again, as well, and I also regret we have no time today to...talk." [Lady's well-trained, indeed, but she WASN'T supposed to still be here. He's trying to show her off, but also vexed I've seen her at all. Blameless driver unfairly maligned. SHE ran late, not the car. Why is he lying?]

Pete's spark of envy [He never looks at ME with such naked lust.] ignites hot jolt of jealousy. [She's laid it on too thick. For a man who gets off cerebrally, that was practically a pass. Know he wants her...could she fancy him, too?] "Come and kiss me." Command is for Karen, but Pete has eyes only for Roger's reaction as she takes his direction and gives him her lips.

Roger unflinchingly observes, well aware affectionate exhibition is another of Pete's torrid tests but uncertain what manner of rise it's intended to invoke. [Does he want me to squirm or salivate? Well, he can strip and screw her right here and I'll do neither. Hmmm. I WOULD enjoy watching that. They're lovely together. Wonder what the wedding night was like...for sure it WASN'T their first time. He'd never commit without assuring aligned appetites.]

Subtle signal softly spurs Karen to ham it up then cut it out, which she does with first shiver then sigh, followed by coy smile and demure demurral, planting one hand against Pete's chest and stepping slightly out of his embrace to murmur "Down, boy." She taps herself twice upon the throat in importuning gesture of her own (the one meaning obedience must be soon repaid with explanation) before glancing at her wristwatch to remark. "I'll miss the train if I don't dash, Dearest."

Noting small suitcase beside the door, Roger sets down his own baggage, beating Karen to hers, insisting. "Allow me."

"Why THANK you." Karen coos with teasing lilt. "How nice to see him cultivating a better class of company." Tossing a smoochy sound behind her shoulder at Pete, she quips "Don't make too much mess, okay? No wild orgies."

"Wouldn't dream of it..." Roger casually assures Karen, but fierce flicker he shoots over her head is anything but amused, freezing Pete in place "...now."

[He's furious...planning to leave as soon as she does, although he came prepared to spend the night...the whole weekend if I'd managed...but I've somehow fucked up royally.] Sharply scathing backward glance as Roger bears Karen's bag to the awaiting sedan makes Pete wonder if he'll contrive to lay an apparently innocent hand on her just to score a hit, but no touch manifests, not even barest brush of fingertips as he opens backseat door for her and hands in the suitcase after she's settled in. Pete cannot discern what has aroused Roger's wrath, but intends to delay his departure and hopefully defuse his displeasure. He bends down to take Roger's accoutrements off the stoop, bearing them far enough into the house that he'll have to step entirely inside before he's able to turn around and leave.

[He thinks I'm going to paw her. Not that I wouldn't like to...he deserves it, and she might go for it. No. I'm above such Neanderthal nonsense.] Roger does indulge himself in sensual stroke of resplendent ride's cool curve, fondly fondling fender. [How I'd love to own a Bentley. Shall, one of these days...black, of course.] He slaps Bentley's boot twice as if urging on a horse or dog and automobile surges out from under his hand to pull away down the drive. Turning back toward the still-open door, he sees neither Pete nor his own possessions. [Bastard KNOWS I'm not staying now, so he's forcing me to come in after my stuff.]

"How DARE you touch my instrument?" Roger snarls to behold Pete standing between him and his property. [He looks so beautiful, but this is about to get ugly, indeed.]

Pete's pulse pounds with sudden surge of adrenaline although he affects insouciant smirk. "I've NEVER touched your...naked...instrument." he deviously declares "I was hoping to seek permission to do so today, but you're evidently in no mood. Shut the door if you'd rather fight than...play. What would nosy neighbors say?"

[Nearest neighbors are acres away, but he's right...something trashy about personal arguments, isn't there? This is the LAST time I'll engage him behind closed doors.] "We won't fight..." is Roger's rough rebuttal "...unless you're too stupid to get out of my way. Stand aside. I have nothing more to say to you."

"Clearly you DO." Pete stonewalls "You're not getting past me until you explain yourself."

"Explain MYself?" Roger barks incredulously "After that ridiculous attempt to humiliate me? You TOLD her, didn't you? Even after we AGREED...this...was to be nobody's business but ours."

[Ah, that's why he's so angry. He's mortified. Well, I can work with that...] "I assure you I didn't." promises Pete sincerely "How could I, when I'm not even sure what...'this'...might be, myself?"

"Oh, don't LIE." Roger growls threateningly "You've been lying since I got here. The car wasn't late, there IS no train and you somehow COACHED her to flirt with me. I've had enough of your twisted games. You'll toy with me no longer. Now MOVE."

[What will he do if I don't?] "ME, twisted? YOU'RE a fucking corkscrew, too busy watching your back to see what's right in front of you."

"If it's still in front of me in five seconds, I shall be forced to knock it down."

Pete gambles that Roger will not back up his threat. [That would mean touching me, which he is obviously...painfully...averse to doing this minute. Might tide be turned?] "Why do you think Karen knows? I haven't shared details with her or anyone."

"Clearly you DID." Roger sneers, fingers flexing into fist then snapping open to pointedly punctuate accusing words. " 'Sir'? 'Boy'? 'Wild orgies', for fuck's sake?" He advances angrily into immediate reach. "What does she think this IS, anyway?"

"Boarding school crush." Pete's flippancy finds flesh with baiting, biting barb. "Pining attraction, unbalanced reciprocation and zero chance of consummation." Figurative finger stabs metaphorical button with provocative precision as Roger's literal hand flashes toward smart mouth. Pete knows he could dodge, but allows backhand blow to connect. [He pulled it...oh, my, look at that FACE. Real remorse. He's shocked that I've moved him to violence...wrecked his resolve...what sublime leverage this provides.] He deliberately frosts his glare and draws himself into intimidating stance, intoning imposing invocation. "If you EVER do that again, you'll be sorry."

"I am sorry." Roger has never before struck a friend in anger. [Nor a lover... which he's NOT...not even my friend...he betrayed me...he's been laughing at me all along.] "Sorry I ever trusted you. I won't do it again, or anything else, either. Whatever this is...WAS...it's over."

"You've never trusted me." Pete scoffs haughtily "You don't trust anyone." He softens both posture and tone, but eyes remain icy. "Believe it or not, those few...suggestive...words which set such a panic in thy breastie were pure..." he allows a small, chilly smile "...impure...coincidence. As usual, you're reading nefarious ulterior motive where none exists. I find it very telling that you demand to hear what SHE thinks 'this is', but that YOU don't deign to name it."

"I did." Roger retorts, recollecting "I clarified THAT before beginning. We agreed to an experiment, but you've made it...me...a joke. We agreed it would be PRIVATE, but your wife knows, your quiet one knows and by now I'm sure your maniac and monkey do, too."

"All they know for certain is what they've seen." [He doesn't want to hear this...said THAT before beginning, too...but perhaps he should...before he walks out of my life forever.] "I promise AGAIN that I haven't told torrid tales, but I know they can't help but notice a change in me, and may well have...to varying degrees...deduced difference was wrought by your influence."

"What difference?"

Pete permits glimmer of hope he may yet salve suspicion with sincerity. "I sing your praises, employ your especially apt appellations, turn your phrases, dwell deeply upon your compositions and light up when you enter a room. Those within my...intimate...circle are not blind to the fact that I want you included in it."

"What do you mean?" [How 'intimate' IS he with his bandmates? Practically incestuous, that...and Rick thinks I'M the pervert?]

"Do you Really Want me to say it?"

"No." Roger decides [Maybe he will, anyway, just to get a rise. Does he really mean it, though? More mind games. I'm a fool to keep playing, but...] "Can you say WHY?"

"I could fling flowery flattery forever..." Pete sighs "...but at the heart of the matter it's because you understand me."

"I don't." Roger shakes his reeling head "Not at all."

"More than anybody else ever has..." Pete gently insists "...maybe ever COULD. Nobody understands you, either, do they? Although you THINK you're speaking plainly it's dismissed as sarcasm or airy-fairy philosophy and all the while the music keeps you...up...all hours in all WAYS and the inspiration never stops burning..."

"...burning..." Roger echoes, unbidden, as Pete carries on.

"...and you KNOW what you have to say...to play...could be transcendent brilliance if only the imperfect instruments at your command could give you more..."

"...more...?"

"...but the right words always fall upon the wrong ears. You try so hard but nobody sees because you've learned to make it look easy, and there's so much pressure but nobody cares because it seems you craved the power..."

"...power..." [He's hypnotizing me...can't let him speak my mind...even if he does have the right of it.] "Stop doing that."

"Ah, but you do it, too." Pete calmly confers "You've done it to me since we met."

"Not on purpose."

"No? You haven't tried to sway...to seduce...to inspire and arouse...at ALL?" It's Pete's turn for scathing suspicion. "NOW who's lying?"

Roger bites balefully "NEVER call me a liar again."

"If this...if we...are finished, and if you don't...CAN'T...return my feelings, why do you care WHAT I call you?"

"You know that I care..." [Won't be saying the word.] "...but 'we' just aren't possible."

"My dear fellow, men like us make our own rules. Always have, always will. If anything is impossible...between us, it is only because you're too afraid."

"It's not fear." Roger knows as he says this that he won't get away with it.

"Call it confusion if you prefer, but for you they're the same thing, aren't they?" Pete may not get what he wants, or like what he hears, but he WILL have an answer before he lets Roger leave him. "What scares you the most?"

[He could break my heart...smash it spectacularly before an avid audience like one of his damned, doomed guitars...if I show him where it hides.] Roger struggles to respond, managing only "It's...you're...too much for me."

[Now we're getting somewhere.] "Never been with a equal before, have you?"

"No." Roger quietly admits, asking "Have you?"

"Once..." Pete trails off, ruefully adding "...I'd hoped, but it...we...never worked out."

Roger yearns to learn who, but settles for only "What went wrong?"

"That's a story for another day." Pete's teasing twinkle returns "If you GIVE me another day. Right now, I think we need to talk about us."

"There is no 'us'." Roger sees no solution. "There can't be."

"You say 'too much'." Deeply desiring to reach out with his hands, Pete coaxingly caresses with only regard and voice. "I cannot be less than I am, but tell me..." he ardently implores "...what overwhelms you so?"

[Your proud, passionate presence... your bold, brilliant beauty...your love...and mine.] Roger is unable to answer.

Pete determines to guess, assured the major hang-up must be some combination of three. [I'll know when I hit the right ratio...like safecracking, he is, but interior trove should prove worth the effort.] "Worried I'll force you into something you don't want?"

"You COULDN'T." Roger regrets impulsively emotional rejoinder, sure Pete takes it not as the defiant denial he'd intended but, rather, as impassioned admission. [I just told him how much I've enjoyed our...experiments.]

"Well, then..." Pete tamps triumph behind benevolent sympathy. "...are you uncomfortable with what you DO want?"

[Occasionally, alone, wracked by memory or anticipation. Never when we're together.] "Not that, either." Roger realizes only confession will end relentless interrogation. [He WILL have the truth of me. Best to give before it's taken.] "I can face the emotions and the actions, but dread the consequences."

"Rejection, ridicule and exposure?" Pete succinctly sums.

"Yes!" blurts Roger in acidic acknowledgement, adding "Your intemperance, irreverence and indiscretion might well ruin my reputation." [Not to mention shatter my sanity.]

"Now see HERE..." Pete snaps back "...I'll not have you believe for one second longer that repercussions would be any more damning for YOU than for ME, should the nature of our...association come out. I assure you, my interest in privacy and discretion is quite sincere indeed." He can't help but remind Roger "I'M the one who kneels...who pleads...who accepts collar and sports stripes. YOUR reputation might actually elevate...among certain types...but MINE would suffer sorely."

Roger is mildly chagrined he hadn't thought of that, but... "I'M the one who KEEPS my private life fucking PRIVATE. How many people in your world already know?"

"They DON'T know!" Pete shouts, temper fraying to repeat this. "And they wouldn't talk if they DID."

"Are you sure about that?" Roger archly inquires "About all of them?"

"Keefy's a bit of a loose cannon." Pete admits "Nobody takes him seriously, though. He publically accuses all of us of vile perversions on a daily basis, a few of which are true, and everybody just laughs because HE's such a wanton Wild Thing so obviously seeking to shock. Monkey knows his place..." [Now] "...and John is the most closemouthed man I've ever met."

"I'm willing to concede that your partners wouldn't deliberately derail the gravy train, but what about your wife?" [Katherine?]

"Karen?" Pete laughs lightly "The 'gravy train', as you put it, is FAR more valuable to her than it is to the lads. They'd still have money and fame were I to be personally disgraced...if not quite so much."

"Things like...this...have a way of divulging during divorce proceedings." Roger declares drily "The tabloids would set her up for life."

"Even if she DOES someday wish to sever our union, don't you think I have enough on HER that she'd never DARE try to spill sordid secrets about ME?"

"You may..." Roger allows "...but I don't. It's possible she'd seek to supplement settlement by blackmail."

"Your paranoia knows no bounds." Pete proclaims "Are you actually asking for access to deviant dirt on my beloved better half just to assuage aimless anxiety?" [I'll give it to him, if that's what it takes to tender trust.]

"Access to her fine, fair form would serve." Roger unabashedly deadpans.

Pete plays along, although he's sure this must be tease or test. "Let me get this straight. You and I can carry on...as we were...if I arrange assignation between you and my wife?"

"Oh, you needn't 'arrange' anything." Roger smiles for the first time since arriving. "All I require from YOU is permission...and presence."

"You'd want me to be there?" [This has potential...]

"Absolutely. The whole point would be to show her this ISN'T a 'boarding school crush'. That you and I...together...are something serious, and should be treated as such." [He'll never agree to this, and when he indignantly denies I'll be able to say I offered a way he might secure my trust but that he couldn't face my terms.]

[!!!] Pete is sold, but needs to press one final point. "It breaks my heart you want to have sex with Karen but not with me."

Roger's puzzlement is genuine. "We..." he softly states, at last accepting simple syllable for all it entails "...already are."

"You count...last time...as sex?"

[He doesn't? Now whose heart is hurt?] "Pete..." emerges hesitantly "...I've considered this a sexual..." [Affair? Relationship? Better stick with...] "...experiment since we sealed it with a kiss, and have taken both pleasure and enlightenment from experiencing...sex with you." He has to know "Are you so jaded or conventional that there must be...penetration...for YOU to 'count' it?"

[That's the first time I've ever heard him say my name. How exquisitely he bites upon the 'T'.] "I suppose not." Pete permits that before stating something he won't. "If you're inclined toward...penetration...with Karen, however, you have to wear a condom."

"Obviously." Roger hadn't needed to be told that, and now wonders whether Pete might balk at this. "If she's inclined toward participation, YOU have to wear my collar."


	12. You Need Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not your typical threesome...

"What lovely flowers you brought." Karen remarks, reaching across with fingertips lightly brushing Roger's chest before alighting upon pink petals crowning the vase resting upon the table beside him. "No artificial arrangement or superfluous greenery." She leans in closer, ostensibly to literally smell the roses but intent upon bringing her face closer to his. "Hothouse perfection breeds the scent right out, but these have a heavenly aroma and a very natural appearance. WhereEVER did you find them?"

[Oh, this is going to be fun.] Roger flicks a laden glance down to Pete's hand resting on her knee before answering lady's inquiry while looking into her husband's eyes. "Hand which braved thorns to cut them was mine own, but garden from which they were taken was not."

"You stole them?" Karen laughs, delighting in position seated between two men of intense focus. "Clearly you got away with it."

"Permission was granted." Roger tersely avows, keenly delving Pete's expression as he matches proprietary gesture to lay hand upon opposite knee, both simultaneously shifting gentle grip to slightly separate thighs beneath silky fabric of her skirt.

Pete is having second thoughts. [Am I really going to let him fuck my wife? What if he's better? Well, this might be the only way to prove I love and trust him...might help him love and trust me.] "With conditions." he reminds, stroking up under hem of Karen's dress to fondle tops of stockings.

"That's right." Roger agrees, reaching with free hand into jacket pocket and withdraw uncoiling collar, looking away from Pete to gauge Karen's reaction. "Has he explained to you about this?" 

Karen's eyes widen and her pulse quickens.as she answers. "He said it's a game you play, where whoever wears it may not speak. Are you going to put it on me?"

[Is THAT what he said? Should I disabuse her of the notion it goes both ways? No...] "Of course not, Dear." Roger utters softly "I very much want to hear what YOU have to say, and I daresay HIS voice rattles in your ears to distraction." [Certainly does in mine...] "It goes on him, so you and I can talk uninterrupted."

"YES!" Karen blurts, then blushes as Pete glares. [I'm gonna pay for this, but it'll be worth it.] "What do you want to talk about?"

"Me, obviously." Pete snaps. "Fuck you, Roger, I didn't agree to this."

"You did." Roger coolly declares, rolling collar back up, removing hand from Karen's knee and shifting as if to stand. "But, if you've changed your mind I suppose we can spend a cordial evening discussing Icelandic poetry or geopolitical trends instead of the wickedly intimate exploration we'd planned."

"Do you KNOW anything about Icelandic poetry?" Pete cannot help but ask, fuming with frustrated memory that he HAD, after all, agreed (albeit flippantly), and that Roger ALWAYS means what he says.

Karen's lust simmers to observe this battle of wills, literally caught in the middle and afraid to say anything.

"Would you rather learn THAT...?" Roger archly inquires "...or observe how I make love? Your roof, your choice."

"Bastard." Pete whispers, well aware he wants this to happen and resigned to conditions.

"My parents were married." quips Roger, drilling "What's your answer?"

"Yes." Pete spits "Damn you. Go ahead, put it on, but remember our OTHER conditions."

"Of course." is smoothly promised as Roger takes Karen's hand in his and presses the collar into it. "Here, love, YOU buckle it on." He smiles to proclaim "I daresay you've desired to shut him up many a time."

"Pete..." Karen hesitates, examining exotic object and imagining repercussions "...are you sure?"

"Oh, just fucking do it." He raises chin to loftily declare. "He's right, it's what you've always wanted."

[What mad game are they at here, and what am I within it? I do want to play, though...] Karen's fingers tremble as she leans in to wrap leather strip around her husband's throat, fumbling but finally enclosing buckle's metal tongue.

"Beautiful." Roger sighs, relaxing back onto the couch, seeming to ignore Pete completely and turning to face Karen. "Now...I have some questions." He taps himself twice upon the throat. "What does THIS mean? You did it before departing when last we met."

Karen nervously glances at Pete before admitting "It's our signal for 'I won't ask now but you better tell me soon'." She turns regard back to Roger "Do you and your wife have signals?"

"Not to the nuanced degree you two clearly do." Roger allows [Don't think she'll be my wife much longer...] "What was it you wanted to know?"

"What's going on between you." Karen also pretends to ignore Pete, thrilled to the core to know he's unable to comment.

"And did he tell you?" Roger burns to learn how much.

"No, not really." she confesses "Just that he wishes you would trust him more and that..." Karen dares to reach out and draw Roger's hand back onto her knee "...sharing me might help."

"It already is." Steely stare once more encompasses Pete's mute regard before softening into Karen's gaze "I'm so glad you're not doing that silly simper from last time. How did he coach you to flirt with me? That's clearly a Thing."

"Face Dances." she murmurs, and Roger immediately understands.

"Genius." [Explains so much...He does it with bandmates, too. Subtle signals bred from sharing. They've probably got secret fucking knocks...now that I KNOW, can begin to decode...] "Did he tell you how to treat me tonight?"

[Goddammit, he's too fucking smart.] Pete strokes a thumb beneath his own left ear for Karen's benefit, but it's Roger who pounces, mimicking the gesture.

"THAT must indicate you're not to answer, which means he DID." Roger can tell from Karen's face he's nailed it, and although he's furious he modulates his tone to tenderness as he gently strokes her cheek. "If YOU don't want this...want me...I wouldn't want it myself. If you've been coerced or bribed, I'll walk away without rancor."

Karen recalls Pete's instruction ["This is what it's going to take to make him trust me, but don't give him any satisfaction. Let him have what he wants, but do the whole 'lie back and think of England' dead-arse so he won't want to do it again."], but determines to defy it. "I do want you..." she boldly declares "..now that I see why he does."

"Prove it." Roger simply demands, and Karen eagerly obliges, wrapping arms around him and pressing passionately parted lips against his to probe moist tongue between them, barely caring what her muted man might think.

[Fuck him. He screws around on tour and I'm expected to accept it. Well, this was HIS fucking idea in the first place and he didn't expect me to like it...much as he does?] Karen feels Pete's eyes on her back but does not deign to turn around and meet them as she breaks the kiss to beg. "Can I ask a question now?"

Roger looks over her shoulder to lock lascivious gaze with Pete as he replies. "You may ASK anything, but I might not be inclined to answer."

"Have you two slept together?" Karen runs one palm along long, lean length of Roger's thigh.

"We have not." He acknowledges, Pete's brilliant blue eyes blazing fiercely into his own.

[Not for lack of trying. This is not proceeding at all according to plan. How the fuck is he bossing MY wife...and me too... when he can't even manage HIS OWN goddamn band?] Pete knows he could put a stop to this at any time by taking off the collar, but is so intrigued he allows it to continue.

"Do you want to?" she asks, hands fastening upon zipper.

"No." Roger pushes inquisitive fingers away and sits up abruptly, sliding his own hands up over breasts to briefly squeeze before shoving her backward onto Pete's lap, regard shifting from one face to another as he admits "I have difficulty...sleeping...in the presence of another."

"Even your own wife?" Karen gasps as Roger shifts position to kneel between her spread legs, rucking up the hem of her dress to her hips as Pete enfolds arms around to pull her close against him.

"Yes." Roger laps light licks along straps of garter belt. "I prefer to sleep alone." Knowing Pete will appreciate violent gesture, he hooks fingers under lacy seam of Karen's knickers and tears them off in one sharp gesture.

"Why?" Wife speaks with husband's voice as both quiver beneath masterful touch.

"None of your business." is decreed as Roger bends to tempting task, halting to turn up eagle eyes in domineering declaration. "No more words."

Karen helplessly moans as two tongues seem to simultaneously find exactly what she needs, Pete licking one set of lips and Roger the other, thrashing in delirious delight.

Once cries subside and quaking thighs fall away from his ears, Roger stands to look down at them both, holding out a hand to Pete, who takes it and rises, leaving Karen shuddering salaciously, looking up at them both.

[Want her to watch...want him to taste her on me...] Roger pulls Pete tightly to him and initiates deep, delving kiss while reaching behind to unbuckle the collar, which he slips back into his pocket, proclaiming "I'm going to have a shower." He turns to saunter away, tossing back over his shoulder "Would never do to go home to my wife smelling like yours."

"I'll join you." are the first words Pete is permitted to utter, but they are rebuffed. 

"You will stay." Roger proclaims "I'm sure you two have a lot to talk about."


	13. Found Futility In Insular Grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gives Roger a chance. He can't do it alone...

"Has he passed out?" Roger squarely meets John's eyes, resisting the urge to narrow or harden his own in response to the outright mistrust and dislike he reads within rueful regard.

"No. He's torturing the piano."

[He's NOT, or I'd be able to hear from here.]

On the heels of that thought come crashing chords, savagely staggering skew showcasing their architect's state of mind. Chilly reception thaws not one degree, and Roger knows no way to break the ice, well aware how dangerously thin a welcome upon which he skates with enigmatic Entwistle. Feeling absurdly like sketchy suitor scrutinized by sweetheart's glowering guardian, he's on the verge of declaring his intentions entirely honorable when The Quiet One finally speaks.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving."

[Wish he wasn't. This might get too heavy for me to handle.] "Please don't go on my account."

Scoffing snidely in the face of Roger's earnest entreaty fails to conceal agony of admission. "He kicked me out." John curtly confesses, acidly adding "Whatever he wants with you is nothing to do with me."

Hearing the hurt and smelling the fermented fumes both rolling off the big bassist in wretched waves, Roger dares words of warning before uncharacteristically hesitant offer. "You shouldn't drive. I could take you home..." [Know his address, although haven't been invited inside. Nick goes there often, and believe Rick's visited, too.] "...or anywhere in town, and then come back." Inclining head toward dissonant discord of Pete's impaired playing, he tries a small, smypathetic smile. "He'll be all right for a little while."

"NO!"

John's harsh denial smacks of angry aversion [He truly hates me so much he won't even ride in my car?], but with his next words Roger sees it's not about HIM at all, impassioned insistence stemming from something far more dire than a stiff-necked case of 'don't-do-me-any-favors'.

"Do NOT leave him alone!"

[Shit. Been making self-destructive noises, has he?] Roger flinches but stands mute and resolute as John abruptly thrusts out heavy hand, cold countenance softening slightly as small scrap transfers from one set of fierce fingers to another and number scrawled upon it is scanned.

"I'll be back tomorrow, but if you're gonna bail before then CALL ME FIRST, okay?"

"Thank you..." Roger simply states, almost reverently tucking token of trust into pants pocket although digits have already been committed to memory "...but I'm not going anywhere. If he kicks me out, too, I'll sit on him 'til you get back." [Literally, if need be.]

"He might like that." John drily declares with ghost of grin.

Hint of humor bolsters Roger enough to try again. "I wish you would stay. He needs you more than me."

"That's not how HE tells it." John sighs sadly "I can't give him what he needs right now, but he thinks you can."

"What DOES he need?" [Could use a heads-up, here.]

"Tough Love."

[Only takes two words to blow you away...] "I'll do my best." is solemnly sworn and gravely acknowledged.

"I believe you." Turning toward telephone, John generously shares "Not driving...calling a ride...might wait outside, though. Need some air, and some silence." Pointedly perceiving painfully percussive pounding, he parlays pensive parting. "Now get on in there, before he realizes you're here and comes out to stir shit."

Blunt orders usually raise Roger's hackles and incite inner iconoclastic contrarian, but he can march to this cadence. "Yes, Sir." is smartly rapped with slightly sarcastic salute. "See you tomorrow."

* * * * *

[What the fuck are they DOING out there, drafting commitment papers? No, that would require collaboration, and they hate each other. Drawing straws? Loser has to venture into the monster's lair? He came when I called, but now would rather talk to Ox than me...?]

Pete has been balefully banging badly since Roger's arrival, attempting affront of artistic sensibilities, but jangled, jarring jibe arouses no reprimand of racket.

[Fine, then, let's see him ignore THIS...]

Fingers shift smoothly from deliberately crabbed claws to ripple in fine, fond flow, fast finding finesse. Forthright notes to maddening melody of which he's yet to learn the meaning have haunted, and he's sure their author will come to claim them.

Roger had been lingering in the hallway, uncertain how to interrupt hellish noise he readily discerns is intentionally inept [Why is he affecting affliction?], but when his own composition effortlessly emerges, so do his next words.

"Got a little black book with my poems in. Got a bag with a toothbrush and a comb in. When I'm a good dog they sometimes throw me a bone in."

[Oh! HE's the dog. ANIMALS makes much more sense...and the collar does, too.] Pete keeps playing, turning his head to regard Roger in the doorway.

Voice falters under adoring appraisal as Roger steps closer into blazingly bright sphere of influence, picking back up after a few unaccompanied bars.

"I've got electric light, and I've got second sight. Got amazing powers of observation..."

[Too right. What good have they done you...or me?]

"...and that is how I know...when I try to get through on the telephone to you..." next line catches in Roger's throat "...there'll be Nobody Home." Lighting up a smoke, he looks at hand holding it instead of those upon the black and the white. "I've got nicotine stains on my fingers. Got a silver spoon on a chain. Got a grand piano to prop up my mortal remains."

[Is he pulling lovely lyrics out of his arse right now just for me or did the poem come first?] Pete has never wanted a cigarette more in his life, but knows if he stops now Roger shall, as well, and the moment will be lost.

"I've got wild, staring eyes." Two pairs devour each other, aflame with sympatico synergy. "I've got a strong urge to fly..." [Into his enticing embrace.] "...but I've got nowhere to fly to."

[He DOES understand!] Arising from piano bench, Pete plucks smoldering stick from Roger's fingers and imagines while inhaling that his own lips where Roger's have recently vacated might as well be a kiss.

"Ooh, babe..." warbles, nearly wailing "When I pick up the phone..." dying down to defeated whisper "...there's still Nobody Home."

"But there was..." Pete sighs, sensing from forlorn finality that's the end. [But this is only the beginning for us. He's opening up at last.] "When I felt like that, you were there." Handing back the cigarette, he watches Roger finish it. "And now you're here, at the end of all things, to bid me goodbye."

"Don't trot that tragic trip on me." Roger snaps, surprised to find himself indignant on John's behalf. "Your quiet one thinks you mean it."

"How do you know I don't?" is Pete's risible rejoinder. "You never liked Keefy anyway, so you couldn't possibly grasp that we can't recapture the magic without him."

Roger's reply is prompt and unsympathetic. "Sure, it won't be the same, but it'll still be brilliant because YOU are. Suicide's really only an option for those in incurable pain or who feel unloved. You're a misbegotten masochist and you fucking KNOW everybody loves you."

"Do you?" [Now I've got him nailed to his own horrid wall.] Pete steps back and watches Roger squirm.

[Fuck me. Walked right into that one. Short answer: Yes, with an 'if'. Long answer: No, with a 'but', yet neither will serve lest I learn...] "What do you need that word to mean...from me?"

"Simple." Pete proclaims "What does it mean to YOU, and do you feel it?"

With an exasperated moan of vexation, Roger cries "It's NOT that simple! People act so fucking weird over that little word precisely because it means VASTLY different things to individuals. It's uttered out of passion or expectation and those involved just ASSUME it means the same to them both, and when they find out it doesn't it's too tempting to fling fault."

Pete can dig it. "So, if I tell you what I want, can you answer whether it's possible?"

"I believe I can manage that..." is cautiously ceded, with caveat "...if you speak plainly."

Striving to do so, Pete is aware he comes off lecturing, but knows no balder way to begin. "You've deemed this...your own word...an 'experiment'. Well, experiments END once initial theory is confirmed or debunked. I need to know what knowledge you seek, and to trust you won't disappear from my life once you've gained it."

[Slick. He has to know that's how I feel, too. Can I say...?] "I could never learn everything I want to know about you." Roger struggles to tell the truth without compromising his resolve "Not in a lifetime...together...but once you have everything from ME, you'll move on to a new challenge."

"Might that anxiety be alleviated if we accept you won't ever give me 'everything'?" [Never thought a sexless marriage would be possible for such a randy Boy as I am, but perhaps I could wear him down over time.] "While it's frustrating that you have no interest in going to bed with me, I have other outlets for surging lust and could refrain from pawing if you let my love open the door to your heart."

"It has." escapes, and there's no calling it back. "I'm not an edge-of-the-bed schoolgirl frightened of the acts themselves but teasing to keep the attention." Roger strives to explain, maintaining eye contact although a hot flush creeps across his cheeks. "If it was just the sex you needed, I could take you to bed right now."

"Right now?" Pete is floored and flabbergasted, alight with impending opportunity, having thought Roger's resistance had more to do with issues of physical intimacy and enthralled to hear otherwise. [Never, EVER been so happy to be wrong!]

"Is there an echo in here?" [Damn him, now I can't back down.]

Ignoring implicature, Pete asks only "What's stopping you, then?"

[In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess.] "I have no idea where your bed IS." Blood rushes in Roger's ears, the sound of his wall crumbling around them, leaving a door just the right size and shape for Pete's passionate presence. "You'll have to take ME to it."

[!!!] "And once we get there?" Pete implacably importunes, still somewhat disbelieving.

"I don't know..." These words are more difficult, and far more important, for Roger to openly utter than 'love' alone could ever be. "...but I trust you."


	14. Find The Finds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Intellectual intercourse...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta thank Metalmaniac for this chapter shaping up the way it did. Knew these two had to eventually discuss "getting off without going off" and outright ADMIT the S&M stuff was only a game, too. "Take This, Rock And Roll Refugee!" provided a splendid segue into important interlude between Big Dogs. Also helps to have read "Reign O'er Me", which details the opening short film.

"You are forgiven."

Pete stands behind the projector, Keith's final line stirring as strongly on the screen as does the rapt attention of the man seated before it. Roger has displayed neither shock nor disgust, now turning to regard him with keen gleam of curiousity over the back of the couch while Pete's onscreen image shuts off the recording at the same moment he himself halts prurient playback. [He liked it! How much, though, and why...?]

[He wants feedback...maybe more?] "You never cease to amaze me." Roger fondly flatters "That was genius. When you said you were missing him, and wanted to share a short film where he was especially cute, I expected it would be carnal capering in lacy lingere."

"Keefy WAS known to do so." Pete's grin becomes a sigh "Sadly, I never took any commemmorative footage. Perhaps John did, but I haven't the heart to ask him...anytime soon."

"Wouldn't have minded watching that..." Roger confesses "...but wouldn't have been moved by it."

"You're the original Immovable Object." Pete teases, striding to hover above Roger's repose, leaning downward in intense inquiry "What...specifically...swayed you?"

"You did." is forthrightly declared "You always do, but THIS..." [Wish he would kiss me, but he won't unless I either request it or finish the thought.] "...showcases your deviant dominance delightfully. Monkey sits still, Maniac is brought to heel and Quiet One suffers indignity...all on your say-so. They worship you...love you. I could never inspire such devotion."

Pete imagines aloud "Bet you'd like to put pretty Pig in similar position."

"Yes." Roger accepts before rejecting "Impossible, though. They don't love me."

[I do.] "They do want to please you." Pete deviously digs "Pig more than he'll admit."

"He admitted it once..." [Fuck me, WHY did I just tell? Now he'll get the whole sordid story...including that I was thinking about HIM...during. Best do this on MY terms. Suppose I DID want to share, although not today.] "Since you offered illicit evidence, I shall reciprocate." Reaching up to interlace long fingers behind Pete's head, Roger pulls their faces closer together. "Next time I'll show you mine..." [Veiled promise ought to distract. Let him make of it what he will.] "...but right now I want more of yours."

[!!!]

*****

"Debt's paid. Game's over. Be Free. Knew you couldn't amuse me for very long."

Questions burn behind his lips much in the same manner as erection strains against his zipper after audacious audio abrubtly cuts off. Pete fantasizes Roger might enjoy exhibition of both, and it's all he can do to remain silent and still. [Let HIM speak first. He's dying to know what I think. Will he ask?]

[No comment? That CAN'T be. Was I too cruel? Is he appalled that it was recorded surreptitiously? He'd be a bloody hypocrite to condemn trickery. Likely he's just screwing with me. Well, if he wants details, he can jolly well SAY so.] Roger doesn't have to wait long before Pete's grave visage cracks into mirthful smirk.

"Your twisted little family's just FULL of surprises. Seems the meek shall inherit the girth. You never told me THAT was going on."

"I still haven't." emerges cautiously. "Blackmail won't work if it's not a secret."

"Of course not." [I'll never beat him at a waiting game...always care more than he does...hmmm...] "David didn't recognize those threats were intrinsically idle." is insinuatingly taunted "Now that I know you'll employ empty extortion, shan't so readily flinch from future foreboding."

['idle'? 'empty'? No...He's just trying for a rise.] "Hollow horrors only scare shallow souls. You've nailed that I would never expose them, but WRONG to assume I'd fail to follow through threats to YOU." Roger archly avows "Just try me."

"Sounds like I am. You're getting defensive at mere MENTION of defiance." [May have overstepped...time to gentle him back down...wonder if I can get him up.] "He IS awfully oblivious to remain unaware Keefy's no longer with us." Pete muses mildly "Although I'm sure Mister Moon would have LOVED to make Miss Piggy squeal."

Roger relishes arousing images conjured while acknowledging "At the time of this recording, nuclear option was still deployable, but, yeah, he IS pretty stupid."

"Have yet to ascertain for myself whether he's stupid, but he's undeniably pretty." Pete leers "Wish there was video."

"I know you do, greedy Boy. Tough luck." [If you want dirty details, you'll have to ASK for them.]

Pete drawls, dallying decadent description "So, sweet supplication and open offer with bated breath earned only scornful departure. I admire your restraint. You don't want to imagine what I would've done in such a position of power."

"Too right, I don't." [Damn his dirty mind manipulating mine. Now I am...] "No restraint was involved, for there wasn't any temptation. I wouldn't touch him, even freshly-washed as I enforced."

"You managed all of...that...without touching him at ALL?" Pete believes Roger's resolute denial, but scoffs as if he didn't.

[FINALLY a question! Sounds almost jealous...or envious. Yessss.] "Manhandled the corset AROUND him, but there was no skin-to-skin. Not even for a second."

"How close were you standing when he said..." Pete moves into Roger's reach, loading both gaze and voice with desire "...'you can have anything you want.'?"

[If that were an offer and not a quote, what would I take right now?] "Closer." Roger follows word with action, pressing his body against Pete's at both chest and hip, leaning in with quiet exhalation. "Like this." 

"Was his dick hard?" is Pete's crude query.

"Yes." Roger tersely shares.

"What about yours?"

Sharp spike of irritation punctures passion. "Why does that matter?"

Pete steps backward with wickedly triumphant grin. "So it WAS, or you would've just said 'No'." [He might strike me for this...perhaps I'm cruisin' for a bruisin'.] "You DID want him, then. Part of you liked it, anyway."

Far from fury or embarrassment expected, Roger turns away with slow, sorrowful shake of his head. "I thought you were smarter than that. I honestly believed you understood..."

[What the FUCK? Are those tears? How have I hurt him? Meant only to prick, but somehow stupidly slashed.] "What don't I understand?"

"ME!" Roger snaps, blinking back looming overspill from eyes but unable to contain bitter outrush from mind and heart "Yes, I liked it, okay! Having that contrary, argumentative, prideful Pig under my command was very exciting, but I MEANT it when I said I don't WANT him! Obtaining his submission, then pushing him away, was FAR more thrilling than ANYthing such a dumb ass could attempt, and NO part of me even BRIEFLY entertained inclination toward intimacy."

Pete now worries that he might be the one to cry, voice quavering in dejected declaration "Apparently, you don't want ME, either. I burn for you, dream of you and would give you anything you want, but I can't manage to get you off. You've never even let me TRY."

"How can you say that?" Roger's tone is subdued and a trifle confused "You get me off WITHOUT trying."

"If THAT were true, I would KNOW." Pete insists with a sniff.

"I thought you did." Roger's reply is barely above a whisper. The empty space between them seems a yawning chasm of misunderstanding, but febrile, fragile words are articulated across in hopes of establishing connection he'd erroneously assumed they already shared. "Just being near you...speaking to you...watching you...even THINKING of you sparks like chain lightning and incites incredible pleasure. Touching you...kissing you...feeling your heat..." he can no longer bear their separation, and bridges the gap to take Pete firmly in his arms, still striving to make sense although uncertain of success "...loving you swells like a phenomenal power chord that threatens to shake me apart each time...every time we're together. A man like you...a mind like yours...it's not POSSIBLE you don't grok that ecstasy...orgasm...happens in the BRAIN."

Pete melts into Roger's embrace, murmmuring against thrumming throat "Sure, I know we can get off without going off, but it's not the same...is it?"

"No." Roger agrees, adding "It's BETTER. I don't NEED the mindless friction with you." [There WILL come a day when I want him to try, although ashamed to admit I'm actually terrified of explosive potential...he might short me out like a cheap fuse.]

"You don't think me 'mindless' because I like...maybe even NEED it, do you?" Pete looks up to meet feirce fondness sincerely shining into eager eyes and blazing into brilliant brain.

"Never." is solemnly sworn "I've no wish to frustrate you. My weird reservations are in no way indicative of ANY shortcoming on your part, or lack of desire on mine." Roger had thought they both knew this, too, but now is compelled to clear up another potential disconnect. "I've been aware since we undertook to play that the power exchange trip was only a game, and that I never truly dominated you for a single heartbeat. What I don't know is whether you actually enjoy playing the submissive role or if you've just been enduring it to keep me interested."

Pete's playfulness resurges "Oh, I DID want to explore sadomasochism from the bottom...and could see you ONLY get into it from the top...but I like being equals MUCH better, and it's a relief to learn you don't need to control EVERYthing." Bold words spur brave gesture as he takes Roger's hand in his to press it upon stalwart stiffness. "Care to come to bed with me and listen to the tape again? I'll ask all the nosy questions you wanted...and maybe some you don't...but you can stay dressed and I won't grope you. I'm desperate to hear all about how 'Porcine Queen' was clad, and I KNOW you want to talk."

Roger kisses lascivious lover's lips while encouragingly fondling eager engorgement before backing off to gasp "There's nobody with whom I'd rather engage in intellectual intercourse. What's your first question?"

"What colour were the panties? Black, I bet."

"You know me so well..."


	15. Judge The Judge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's sympathy not tears people need when they're the Front Page sad news."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Direct sequel to "Intermission"

"This better be good." Pete proclaims, picking up private line, adding "I'm in The Cube."

"I'm in the wind." drifts dolorously down the line "Thought you should hear straight from stray dog's snout before nasty news gets splashed across the rags."

[!!!] "Irreconcilable this time?"

"There was blood."

"Yours?"

"No." Single word conveys volumes.

[Nobody's really hurt, but ties have been violently severed.] "Need an alibi?"

Roger grudgingly admits "Need an ally." [He'd LIE for me? Of course...duplicity is among his diverse diversions.]

"You have one." is ardently declared [He feels safe here, although I'd love to go to him.] "I'm alone, but would rather be with you."

"I'm on my way."

*****

Watching the cab drop off pensive passenger, Pete moves to open front door as Roger approaches, noting normally inscrutable features radiating astonishingly apparent agony.

"Have I interrupted your work?"

"You're more important."

Stern statement strikes strangely concupiscent chord, but skepticism stirs scoff "That can't be true."

"Right now it is." Meeting tortured gaze unwaveringly, Pete knows Roger will see for himself.

"Thanks." simple gratitude precedes undiluted utterance. "I love you."

"Likewise." Pete avows, meeting no resistance as he pulls conflicted composer tightly to him, murmuring "Has the hard rain finally fallen?"

"And how. I can't go back. They don't want ME, but they'll be happy enough to keep running on the tracks I've laid."

" 'Pink Floyd' is open to too much interpretation, is it?"

"YES!" Roger mourns against Pete's chest "I'm screwed..."

[Perhaps...] "What makes you say so?"

"You might not understand." [Framing it thusly might make him try harder.] "Nothing like this could EVER happen to you."

"I understand many things that haven't happened to me, and still don't grok a few that HAVE." [Seeking sympathetic solace, but pride might make him reject it. Better try flattery, first.] "I'm amazed every day to have somehow earned your trust and your love."

"THEY never wanted it." Raising heavy head to regard brilliant beloved's blazing blues, Roger's eyes remain dry but his voice chokes wetly. "I tried to love them...in my own weird way, but they never loved me back. YOUR band truly is a family, and they ACCEPT you as its head. I could never have that." he sighs "Not ever. No matter who I might play with now or for the rest of my life, I'll always be the mean one...the ugly one...the odd man out."

"They call me a monster to my FACE." Pete serenely shares "You command too much fear for that."

"WHY?" erupts in hurt howl before mortified modulation "I want respect and, okay, obedience, but that's just because I'm doing all the WORK. I WISH they would contribute more, but Nick's too easygoing, Rick's a total pussy and Dave..." he trails off the deep end, unsure how to describe Mexican standoff of contrarian defiance, finally settling for "Dave just doesn't like me, and we can't compose together."

"You don't much like him, either, and you knew this day was coming. Surely you've made plans."

Roger's hands slide from Pete's waist, rising to rake through his own tangled hair as he steps backward, bemoaning "Oh, making plans is ALL I do anymore. Yeah, I've got fucking PLANS, but what goddamn GOOD are they when nobody wants to work with me?"

[NOBODY can tell this man what to do, but he's ASKING...] "Maybe you're selling yourself short. What you have to say...and the way you say it...seems far more suited to solo work."

"I can't play drums and I can't bend string, and I NEED those sounds." Roger frets "Can WRITE them, but dumbly disinclined digits don't go that way."

"That's what studio musicians are for. All the talent, none of the ego."

Roger sneers "Whores."

"Okay, then, if you're gonna be a fucking puritan about it, you could invite your friends in to play."

"YOU won't bend string, either." 

"AYE wasn't offering." Pete mimics curled lip and raises insinuating eyebrow "Happen to KNOW you keep convivial company with a stringsmith who DOES make it weep and wail."

[Fuck, he knows Eric, too. How well, I wonder...] "You two have talked about me?"

"Not in detail..." Pete drawls, eyeing Roger's reaction [Hmm, their admiration's purely platonic...so far.] "...but he HAS expressed interest in working with you, and I'm sure he would've said so to YOU first."

"He did." Roger acknowledges, perceiving jealousy "Sure, friends help each other out, but that runs into danger of circle-jerk territory."

"Ever played a literal circle-jerk?" Pete playfully inquires.

"Ugh, NO." is denied with an eye-roll "Have you?"

"Not exactly, but I HAVE been to summer camp, so suppose I did a time or two beat off after lights-out in a roomful of boys who might've been doing the same."

Finding illicit image unexpectedly arousing, Roger shakes his head and declares "On THAT note, I could go for a stiff one." [If he dirty-jokes me, I'll admit...]

"What were you drinking earlier?" [Phoned from a tavern, then took a taxi, so had more than a few, but doesn't seem at all affected.] Pete moves toward the bar only to be arrested by Roger's firm grasp on his bicep, spinning him back around to breathe heavily into his face.

"Can't you smell?"

[He's smoked since last drink...all I'm getting is tang of ethanol overlain with tobacco.] Turning up parted lips, Pete implores "I'd rather taste."

Roger's reply reciprocates wordlessly, wrapping warm form into emboldened embrace as touch of tongue slips slickly along limber length of his own in intimately investigative probe. [If he guesses right, shall reward him, but might beat him if he's wrong...if he lets me. Never actually said whether he enjoys it, merely admitted 'I did want to explore...' Will we ever revisit that game now that it's been exposed as a put-on?]

[Must tread very carefully. Otherworldly olfactory observation often detects intent and unearths ideation...yet isn't infallible. He'll frost up at slightest sniff of potential pity, and my most educated guess could come off a clueless stab in the dark. He's weakened and vulnerable, but would never suffer being treated as such.] Deftly disengaging from Roger's mouth but remaining in his arms, Pete gravely pronounces "I can't tell what you've had, and would very much like to learn what you want." Passionate press proves "Certainly, a stiff one is on offer, but I'm gambling that you'd rather have a drink first."

"Maybe two." Releasing his hold, Roger yearns to similarly let go of restricting inhibition. "If I'm to say what I Really Want."

This time Pete's progress toward potent potables proceeds unimpeded. "What's your pleasure?"

"I'm looking at it." utters unbidden, and Roger is grateful for split second to shift thirsty regard from elegant economy of motion to wicker-wrapped wine bottle before Pete's curious backward glance. "The Chianti. Stronger than my usual, but not quite...burning."

[!!! Why, I do believe that was pronounced while eyeing my arse. Nice save, though.] Pete can play this game. "Not at all sweet, although nonetheless heady?" he asks archly, carrying on while cleverly manipulating both literal and figurative corkscrew. "Bit bitter, but seductively addictive after first few fortifying forays?"

"In vino veritas." Roger whispers, watching Pete pour.

"I'll share my wine if you'll share your truth. As much as you can handle."

Gratefully grasping goblet, Roger proceeds to drain draught dry in three long swallows, gesture requesting refill while taking refuge in words perfected and purveyed for public perusal long ago. "I gotta admit that I'm a little bit confused. Sometimes it seems to me as if I'm just being used. Gotta stay awake, gotta try and shake off this creeping malaise." Small sip of second serving precedes completion of lonely lyric "If I don't stand my own ground, how can I find my way out of this maze?"

Pete has painstakingly perused Roger's rueful references since grasping soulful significance, and now quotes following verse as astonishingly appropriate rejoinder. "Deaf, dumb and blind, you just keep on pretending that everyone's expendable and no one has a real friend? It seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner? Everything's done under the sun, and you believe at heart everyone's a killer?"

[!!! He DOES understand, and has committed MY words to memory! Except...] "Those aren't questions."

[Oh, inclined to quibble? Fine, then.] "Obviously they're accusations, but I was offering benefit of doubt as to whether they're directed in or out."

"Spare me your devious diplomacy." Roger snaps "Are you saying I was stupid to leave?"

[Uh-oh, hackles...steady on...] "No, I'm saying you were stupid to STAY as long as you did, feeling like a stranger at home."

"The music was more important than my feelings."

"The music IS your feelings, though." 

"Yes, but they don't care."

"Who do you wish cared more, your band or your fans?"

"I haven't GOT any fans." [Or a band, either, for that matter.] "Dippy twats buying the records actually believe there's a bloke named Floyd behind the curtain, and shriekers in the front row aren't looking at ME."

Pete can't help but chuckle "Most who queue up for us actually believe Monkey is our lyricist."

"BullshiT!" Roger is horrified at the very idea.

"You, of all people, ought to be well-acquainted with the glaring fact that rock-n-roll is a bullshit business."

"YOU, of all people, ought to see there's more...we're more...than beats and shouting." 

[Won't get a tidier intro than that.] "How broadly encompassing is this 'we'?" Pete wants to know. "Are you talking about ALL performance artists, just those in our shared field, or about you and me..." he slides hand not holding half-full bottle down long length of leather sleeve to entwine fingers within Roger's hand not holding once-more empty glass "...personally?"

"I do want to talk about...us." Roger gravely intones "But I'm not sure how to say what I came to tell you. Can we sit down?"

"Of course." Pete forces insouciant smile as his heart drops into his shoes. "Is this the point where you solemnly swear you've cherished our enriching, enlightening escapades but that you must be moving on?" he sighs, affecting weary resignation "I'm a part of your old life, now, I suppose, and where you're going I can't follow?"

"No!" [How the FUCK could he know I just said those very words to Nick?] "I don't WANT you to follow."

"Well, at least you're not trying to let me down gently." Conjuring piteous display, Pete calls forth swim, brim, then overspill. "Guess I expected eventual endgame was looming large. Things were starting to get too real."

[Crying on cue. Cute trick, but...] "Knock off the crocodile tears." Roger commands, holding up goblet for replenishment with one hand while keeping clasp of Pete's in the other. "You're not making this easy."

"Isn't that why you love me?" Pete can't help but ask, blinking away lachrymose affectation as he refills Roger's glass. [Mymy, he's imbibing faster than I've ever seen, but he's nonetheless nobody's fool.] "Even if you ARE cutting me off..."

"I'm NOT!" Roger vehemently denies, drinking deeply before burning blush "The opposite, in fact." [Why can't I just SAY...?] 

Pete proffers with bottleneck and delves with double entendre. "You want more?"

"Yes." Thankful that Pete said it for him, Roger accepts both top-off and set-up. "I haven't been fair to you, or completely honest, and we can't go on this way..." he squeezes Pete's fingers, absorbing another bracing belt of old red "...but I do want us to go on...together."

"I can't conceive you've told me any outright lies..." [He knows I've lied to HIM, yet likely hasn't treed the total truth.] "...but, if you're inclined to clear up omissions or evasions, I'm all ears." Pete pulls them by held hands toward padded chaise, sitting down first to tug Roger into similar position beside. "I don't feel unfairly played. You stated upfront what you would...and wouldn't...get into, and you've treated me with respect and restraint...maybe even when I didn't deserve it."

"Too much restraint...not enough respect." Recriminations erupt in cathartic confession of failings "I've been petty, drawing lines that don't matter just to assert dominance. I've been cowardly, running away when I should have reached out. I've fished for flattery, but been so stingy about admitting admiration that it might not be evident how very much I care."

[He's not just talking about me, here, but best not bring that up.] "You HAVE made me work for every single inch of inroad." Pete plonks Chianti down onto telephone table, freeing fingers to pluck glass from Roger's and steal a sip before giving goblet back. "I relish cleverly charming challenge, though."

"I know you do." Mortar finally crumbling, but not quite as much as he hopes, Roger drains dregs yet again before continuing "That's partly why I've played hard-to-get...but it was wrong to make you chase me."

"Had to be sure I could keep up?"

"I believe it WAS that..." Roger admits "...initially, but then it started seeming competitive...like we were trying to learn who'd crack and beg under escalating excitement."

[!!!] "YOU were ever even ONCE close to begging?"

"More than once. I'm begging now, can we please nullify constricting restrictions?"

"Meaning WHAT, exactly?" Pulse pounding, Pete presses "Is there something...specific...you now desire which you at first forbade?"

"When I said I don't want you to follow, meant maybe I'm ready to let you lead. Not EVERYwhere..." is softly yet firmly stipulated "...for reservations remain, but I know you've been catering to MY wishes, possibly at the expense of your own." Roger leans in for gentle brush of lips, quietly inquiring "What do you want from me?"

Smartly starting small, Pete professes "I want you to close your eyes, and KEEP them closed for an entire kiss. No peeking."

"Just a kiss, okay? Can't promise I won't need to look if you try...anything more." [Might not stop him, but would have to watch...whatever develops.]

"No more..." Pete vows, disentangling sweaty handclasp to display both palms "...but no less, either." He searches Roger's eyes while anticipating their closure, warning "It's going to be a LONG kiss, and a deep one. I'll keep paws to myself, but feel free to touch ME any way you wish." Facilitating fulfillment, he takes empty glass from unresisting grasp and sets it beside bottle, asking "Acceptable?"

"Yes." [He WOULD ask for that. Stripping of vital sense may well heighten others...especially that of trust. Can't cheat, better bet he'll be watching.] 

Observing genius gleam shuttered, Pete thrills at unexpected yield as he touches teasing tongue to awaiting lips and feels them spread apart, inviting intimate exploration. He gives in to overwhelming urge, thrusting himself suddenly into the hot cavern of Roger's mouth and flexing lingual muscles in fervent flicker. 

[!!!] Roger had intended to remain silent, but guttural growl shatters stoicism as Pete's passion takes him by such surprise that arms arise seemingly of their own accord to fondly enfold firm form. [He's trying to show me how he fucks...not ready for that, but if I ever AM, it'll be with him. I'd balk if he insisted, but could I refuse if he were to plead?]

Exerting conscious effort to curtail reciprocal reach as shocking vibration thrums across his tongue, Pete decides he needs to literally sit on his hands, tucking fingers beneath thighs while deliberately deepening their kiss. [He's struggling to keep his eyes shut.] Exceptionally aroused that he can watch while Roger remains willingly blind, he flicks greedy gaze downward, discerning distinct erection in faded black jeans. [Says that doesn't mean anything, but must mean SOMETHING here and now...doesn't it?]

[He's looking at my cock...probably. KNOW he wants to handle it, and by now he's aware I want him to...that I only stopped him on other occasions out of prudish pride and foolish fear. If he starts teasing, suppose I deserve it.] Tongue withdraws, yet eager lips hover heatedly.

Pete has never said these words directly to Roger's face, but does so now that critical eyes are closed. "I love you."

"Yesss..." Roger hisses "I was a fool to ever doubt..." He slides hands along stalwart spine, admiring bold backbone "...how perfect we can be. May I open my eyes now?"

"Only if you tell me what you see when you do." 

Roger has never said these words directly to Pete's face, but blurts beholding it anew "You're so beautiful."

"My 'beauty' needs an understanding, and a knowledge of what I am."

"I see that now, and accept how magnificently matched we are."

"Without your match, there is no flame." Pete proclaims, prying "Tell me, friend, why do you stand aloof from your own heart?"

"You know why." Roger is able to acknowledge "Anyway, the reason no longer exists."

Pete can hardly believe his ears, and pushes his luck. "No more refusal for refusal's sake, then? No more fearful denial?"

"That's right." [What will this mean to him?] "No more arbitrary lines or face dances on shifting sands of suspicion. I'll only say 'no' if I truly don't desire...whatever you ask. But you DO have to ask first." Roger smiles, cautiously enticing "The nicer, the better."

"I've longed to see you naked." is Pete's ready request "May I take your clothes off? Pretty please?"

"No..." Roger stands up abruptly, amused at Pete's crestfallen expression "...but I will, if that's what you Really Want." Bending to unlace his boots, he adds "Not in a common area, though. Bedroom or bathroom?"

"Which would you prefer?" [He's finally about to put his body where his brain is!]

"That tub in your private lavatory is fucking huge." Roger remarks, lip quirking to quip, quoting himself [Composed next giddy line in character of clueless groupie, never dreaming I'd utter it while feeling like one. THIS man is arguably the biggest deal in entire realm of rock-n-roll...far more respected and revered than Dirty Dave's dumb ass could ever be, with or without me handling heavy lifting, so good riddance to bad rubbish. Perhaps I don't belong in a band, but I'm obviously not unwanted. Unfit for family dog, but not quite a stray.] "Wanna take a bath?"


End file.
